RICHARD 

HARDING 

DAVIS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LOST  ROAD 


"It  is  an  enchanted  road,"  said  the  girl;  "or  m 
are  enchanted" 


THE  LOST  ROAD 


BY 

RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

WALLACE   MORGAN 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK  ::::::::::::::::::::::  1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1913 


PS 


TO 
MY  WIFE 


1608,304 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LOST  ROAD i 

THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 33 

EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 67 

THE  MAN  OF  ZANZIBAR      101 

THE  LONG  ARM 149 

THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 171 

THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 207 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"It  is  an  enchanted  road,"  said  the  girl;   "or  maybe 

we  are  enchanted" Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Directly  under  his  nose  was  a  tarnished  silver  loving- 
cup  26 

He  found  it  like  being  perpetually  in  a  comic  opera     .      106 

"I  know  only  one  thing — two  things,  that  I  love  you 
and  that,  until  you  love  me,  I  am  going  to  make 
your  life  hell!" 126 

"You  mustn't  get  her  mixed  up  with  anything  I  told 

you  about  her  brother" 222 

"Some  day  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  young  man    .     .     226 


THE  LOST  ROAD 


THE  LOST  ROAD 

DURING  the  war  with  Spain,  Colton  Lee 
.came  into  the  service  as  a  volunteer.  For 
a  young  man,  he  always  had  taken  life  almost 
too  seriously,  and  when,  after  the  campaign  in 
Cuba,  he  elected  to  make  soldiering  his  profes 
sion,  the  seriousness  with  which  he  attacked  his 
new  work  surprised  no  one.  Finding  they  had 
lost  him  forever,  his  former  intimates  were  bored, 
but  his  colonel  was  enthusiastic,  and  the  men  of 
his  troop  not  only  loved,  but  respected  him. 

From  the  start  he  determined  in  his  new  life 
women  should  have  no  part — a  determination 
that  puzzled  no  one  so  much  as  the  women,  for 
to  Lee  no  woman,  old  or  young,  had  found  cause 
to  be  unfriendly.  But  he  had  read  that  the  army 
is  a  jealous  mistress  who  brooks  no  rival,  that 
"red  lips  tarnish  the  scabbard  steel,"  that  "he 
travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone." 

So,  when  white  hands  beckoned  and  pretty  eyes 
signalled,  he  did  not  look.  For  five  years,  until 
just  before  he  sailed  for  his  three  years  of  duty 

3 


The  Lost  Road 

in  the  Philippines,  he  succeeded  not  only  in  not 
looking,  but  in  building  up  for  himself  such  a  fine 
reputation  as  a  woman-hater  that  all  women  were 
crazy  about  him.  Had  he  not  been  ordered  to 
Agawamsett  that  fact  would  not  have  affected 
him.  But  at  the  Officers'  School  he  had  indulged 
in  hard  study  rather  than  in  hard  riding,  had 
overworked,  had  brought  back  his  Cuban  fever, 
and  was  in  poor  shape  to  face  the  tropics.  So, 
for  two  months  before  the  transport  was  to  sail, 
they  ordered  him  to  Cape  Cod  to  fill  his  lungs 
with  the  bracing  air  of  a  New  England  autumn. 

He  selected  Agawamsett,  because,  when  at  Har 
vard,  it  was  there  he  had  spent  his  summer  vaca 
tions,  and  he  knew  he  would  find  sailboats  and 
tennis  and,  through  the  pine  woods  back  of  the 
little  whaling  village,  many  miles  of  untravelled 
roads.  He  promised  himself  that  over  these  he 
would  gallop  an  imaginary  troop  in  route  marches, 
would  manoeuvre  it  against  possible  ambush,  and, 
in  combat  patrols,  ground  scouts,  and  cossack 
outposts,  charge  with  it  "as  foragers."  But  he 
did  none  of  these  things.  For  at  Agawamsett  he 
met  Frances  Gardner,  and  his  experience  with  her 
was  so  disastrous  that,  in  his  determination  to 
avoid  all  women,  he  was  convinced  he  was  right. 

When  later  he  reached  Manila  he  vowed  no 
4 


The  Lost  Road 

other  woman  would  ever  again  find  a  place  in  his 
thoughts.  No  other  woman  did.  Not  because 
he  had  the  strength  to  keep  his  vow,  but  be 
cause  he  so  continually  thought  of  Frances  Gard 
ner  that  no  other  woman  had  a  chance. 

Miss  Gardner  was  a  remarkable  girl.  Her  charm 
appealed  to  all  kinds  of  men,  and,  unfortunately 
for  Lee,  several  kinds  of  men  appealed  to  her. 
Her  fortune  and  her  relations  were  bound  up  in 
the  person  of  a  rich  aunt  with  whom  she  lived,  and 
who,  it  was  understood,  some  day  would  leave  her 
all  the  money  in  the  world.  But,  in  spite  of  her 
charm,  certainly  in  spite  of  the  rich  aunt,  Lee, 
true  to  his  determination,  might  not  have  noticed 
the  girl  had  not  she  ridden  so  extremely  well. 

It  was  to  the  captain  of  cavalry  she  first  ap 
pealed.  But  even  a  cavalry  captain,  whose  duty 
in  life  is  to  instruct  sixty  men  in  the  art  of  tak 
ing  the  life  of  as  many  other  men  as  possible, 
may  turn  his  head  in  the  direction  of  a  good- 
looking  girl.  And  when  for  weeks  a  man  rides 
at  the  side  of  one  through  pine  forests  as  dim  and 
mysterious  as  the  aisles  of  a  great  cathedral,  when 
he  guides  her  across  the  wet  marshes  when  the 
sun  is  setting  crimson  in  the  pools  and  the  wind 
blows  salt  from  the  sea,  when  he  loses  them  both 
by  moonlight  in  wood-roads  where  the  hoofs  of 

5 


The  Lost  Road 

the  horses  sink  silently  into  dusty  pine  needles, 
he  thinks  more  frequently  of  the  girl  at  his  side 
than  of  the  faithful  troopers  waiting  for  him  in 
San  Francisco.  The  girl  at  his  side  thought  fre 
quently  of  him. 

With  the  "surface  indications"  of  a  young  man 
about  to  ask  her  to  marry  him  she  was  painfully 
familiar;  but  this  time  the  possibility  was  the 
reverse  of  painful.  What  she  meant  to  do  about 
it  she  did  not  know,  but  she  did  know  that  she 
was  strangely  happy.  Between  living  on  as  the 
dependant  of  a  somewhat  exacting  relative  and 
becoming  the  full  partner  of  this  young  stranger, 
who  with  men  had  proved  himself  so  masterful, 
and  who  with  her  was  so  gentle,  there  seemed  but 
little  choice.  But  she  did  not  as  yet  wish  to  make 
the  choice.  She  preferred  to  believe  she  was  not 
certain.  She  assured  him  that  before  his  leave  of 
absence  was  over  she  would  tell  him  whether  she 
would  remain  on  duty  with  the  querulous  aunt, 
who  had  befriended  her,  or  as  his  wife  accompany 
him  to  the  Philippines. 

It  was  not  the  answer  he  wanted;  but  in  her 
happiness,  which  was  evident  to  every  one,  he 
could  not  help  but  take  hope.  And  in  the  ques 
tions  she  put  to  him  of  life  in  the  tropics,  of  the 
life  of  the  "officers'  ladies,"  he  saw  that  what  was 

6 


The  Lost  Road 

in  her  mind  was  a  possible  life  with  him,  and  he 
was  content. 

She  became  to  him  a  wonderful,  glorious  per 
son,  and  each  day  she  grew  in  loveliness.  It  had 
been  five  years  of  soldiering  in  Cuba,  China,  and 
on  the  Mexican  border  since  he  had  talked  to  a 
woman  with  interest,  and  now  in  all  she  said,  in 
all  her  thoughts  and  words  and  delights,  he  found 
fresher  and  stronger  reasons  for  discarding  his 
determination  to  remain  wedded  only  to  the 
United  States  Army.  He  did  not  need  reasons. 
He  was  far  too  much  in  love  to  see  in  any  word 
or  act  of  hers  anything  that  was  not  fine  and 
beautiful. 

In  their  rides  they  had  one  day  stumbled  upon 
a  long-lost  and  long-forgotten  road  through  the 
woods,  which  she  had  claimed  as  their  own  by 
right  of  discovery,  and,  no  matter  to  what  point 
they  set  forth  each  day,  they  always  returned  by 
it.  Their  way  through  the  woods  stretched  for 
miles.  It  was  concealed  in  a  forest  of  stunted 
oaks  and  black  pines,  with  no  sign  of  human  habi 
tation,  save  here  and  there  a  clearing  now  long 
neglected  and  alive  only  with  goldenrod.  Trunks 
of  trees,  moss-grown  and  crumbling  beneath  the 
touch  of  the  ponies'  hoofs,  lay  in  their  path,  and 
above  it  the  branches  of  a  younger  generation  had 

7 


The  Lost  Road 

clasped  hands.  At  their  approach  squirrels  raced 
for  shelter,  woodcock  and  partridge  shot  deeper 
into  the  net-work  of  vines  and  saplings,  and 
the  click  of  the  steel  as  the  ponies  tossed  their 
bits,  and  their  own  whispers,  alone  disturbed  the 
silence. 

"It  is  an  enchanted  road,"  said  the  girl;  "or 
maybe  we  are  enchanted." 

"Not  I,"  cried  the  young  man  loyally.  "I 
was  never  so  sane,  never  so  sure,  never  so  happy 
in  knowing  just  what  I  wanted!  If  only  you 
could  be  as  sure!" 

One  day  she  came  to  him  in  high  excitement 
with  a  book  of  verse.  "He  has  written  a  poem," 
she  cried,  "about  our  own  woods,  about  our  lost 
road!  Listen!"  she  commanded,  and  she  read  to 
him: 

"They  shut  the  road  through  the  woods 

Seventy  years  ago. 
Weather  and  rain  have  undone  it  again, 

And  now  you  would  never  know 
There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods 

Before  they  planted  the  trees. 
It  is  underneath  the  coppice  and  heath, 

And  the  thin  anemones. 

Only  the  keeper  sees 
That,  where  the  ringdove  broods, 

And  the  badgers  roll  at  ease, 

There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods. 
8 


The  Lost  Road 

"  'Yet,  if  you  enter  the  woods 

Of  a  summer  evening  late, 
When  the  night  air  cools  on  the  trout-ringed  pools 

Where  the  otter  whistles  his  mate 
(They  fear  not  men  in  the  woods 

Because  they  see  so  few), 
You  will  hear  the  beat  of  a  horse's  feet, 

And  the  swish  of  a  skirt  in  the  dew, , 

Steadily  cantering  through 
The  misty  solitudes, 

As  though  they  perfectly  knew 
The  old  lost  road  through  the  woods.  .  .  . 
But  there  is  no  road  through  the  woods.' " 

"I  don't  like  that  at  all,"  cried  the  soldier-man. 
"It's  too — too  sad — it  doesn't  give  you  any  en 
couragement.  The  way  it  ends,  I  mean:  'But 
there  is  no  road  through  the  woods.'  Of  course 
there's  a  road!  For  us  there  always  will  be. 
I'm  going  to  make  sure.  I'm  going  to  buy  those 
woods,  and  keep  the  lost  road  where  we  can  al 
ways  find  it." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  the  girl,  "that  he  means 
a  real  road." 

"I  know  what  he  means,"  cried  the  lover, 
"and  he's  wrong!  There  is  a  road,  and  you  and 
I  have  found  it,  and  we  are  going  to  follow  it  for 
always." 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  but  her  eyes  were 
smiling  happily. 

9 


The  Lost  Road 

The  "season"  at  Agawamsett  closed  with  the 
tennis  tournament,  and  it  was  generally  conceded 
fit  and  proper,  from  every  point  of  view,  that  in 
mixed  doubles  Lee  and  Miss  Gardner  should 
be  partners.  Young  Stedman,  the  Boston  artist, 
was  the  only  one  who  made  objection.  Up  in 
the  sail-loft  that  he  had  turned  into  a  studio  he 
was  painting  a  portrait  of  the  lovely  Miss  Gard 
ner,  and  he  protested  that  the  three  days'  tour 
nament  would  sadly  interrupt  his  work.  And 
Frances,  who  was  very  much  interested  in  the 
portrait,  was  inclined  to  agree. 

But  Lee  beat  down  her  objections.  He  was 
not  at  all  interested  in  the  portrait.  He  disap 
proved  of  it  entirely.  For  the  sittings  robbed 
him  of  Frances  during  the  better  part  of  each 
morning,  and  he  urged  that  when  he  must  so 
soon  leave  her,  between  the  man  who  wanted  her 
portrait  and  the  man  who  wanted  her,  it  would 
be  kind  to  give  her  time  to  the  latter. 

"But  I  had  no  idea,"  protested  Frances,  "he 
would  take  so  long.  He  told  me  he'd  finish  it  in 
three  sittings.  But  he's  so  critical  of  his  own  work 
that  he  goes  over  it  again  and  again.  He  says  that 
I  am  a  most  difficult  subject,  but  that  I  inspire 
him.  And  he  says,  if  I  will  only  give  him  time,  he 
believes  this  will  be  the  best  thing  he  has  done." 

10 


The  Lost  Road 

"That's  an  awful  thought,"  said  the  cavalry 
officer. 

"You  don't  like  him,"  reproved  Miss  Gardner. 
"He  is  always  very  polite  to  you." 

"He's  polite  to  everybody,"  said  Lee;  "that's 
why  I  don't  like  him.  He's  not  a  real  artist. 
He's  a  courtier.  God  gave  him  a  talent,  and  he 
makes  a  mean  use  of  it.  Uses  it  to  flatter  people. 
He's  like  these  long-haired  violinists  who  play 
anything  you  ask  them  to  in  the  lobster  palaces." 

Miss  Gardner  looked  away  from  him.  Her 
color  was  high  and  her  eyes  very  bright. 

"I  think,"  she  said  steadily,  "that  Mr.  Sted- 
man  is  a  great  artist,  and  some  day  all  the  world 
will  think  so,  too!" 

Lee  made  no  answer.  Not  because  he  dis 
agreed  with  her  estimate  of  Mr.  Stedman's  gen 
ius — he  made  no  pretence  of  being  an  art  critic 
— but  because  her  vehement  admiration  had  filled 
him  with  sudden  panic.  He  was  not  jealous. 
For  that  he  was  far  too  humble.  Indeed,  he 
thought  himself  so  utterly  unworthy  of  Frances 
Gardner  that  the  fact  that  to  him  she  might  pre 
fer  some  one  else  was  in  no  way  a  surprise.  He 
only  knew  that  if  she  should  prefer  some  one  else 
not  all  his  troop  horses  nor  all  his  men  could  put 
Humpty  Dumpty  back  again. 

ii 


The  Lost  Road 

But  if,  in  regard  to  Mr.  Stedman,  Miss  Gard 
ner  had  for  a  moment  been  at  odds  with  the  man 
who  loved  her,  she  made  up  for  it  the  day  follow 
ing  on  the  tennis  court.  There  she  was  in  accord 
with  him  in  heart,  soul,  and  body,  and  her  sharp 
"Well  played,  partner!"  thrilled  him  like  one  of 
his  own  bugle  calls.  For  two  days  against  visit 
ing  and  local  teams  they  fought  their  way  through 
the  tournament,  and  the  struggle  with  her  at  his 
side  filled  Lee  with  a  great  happiness.  Not  that 
the  championship  of  Agawamsett  counted  greatly 
to  one  exiled  for  three  years  to  live  among  the 
Moros.  He  wanted  to  win  because  she  wanted 
to  win.  But  his  happiness  came  in  doing  some 
thing  in  common  with  her,  in  helping  her  and  in 
having  her  help  him,  in  being,  if  only  in  play,  if 
only  for  three  days,  her  "partner." 

After  they  won  they  walked  home  together, 
each  swinging  a  fat,  heavy  loving-cup.  On  each 
was  engraved: 

"Mixed  doubles,  Agawamsett,  1910." 

Lee  held  his  up  so  that  the  setting  sun  flashed 
on  the  silver. 

"I  am  going  to  keep  that,"  he  said,  "as 
long  as  I  live.  It  means  you  were  once  my 
*  partner.'  It's  a  sign  that  once  we  two  worked 
together  for  something  and  won"  In  the  words 

12 


The  Lost  Road 

the  man  showed  such  feeling  that  the  girl  said 
soberly: 

"Mine  means  that  to  me,  too.  I  will  never 
part  with  mine,  either." 

Lee  turned  to  her  and  smiled,  appealing  wist 
fully. 

"It  seems  a  pity  to  separate  them,"  he  said. 
"They'd  look  well  together  over  an  open  fire 
place." 

The  girl  frowned  unhappily.  "I  don't  know" 
she  protested.  "I  don't  know." 

The  next  day  Lee  received  from  the  War  De 
partment  a  telegram  directing  him  to  "proceed 
without  delay"  to  San  Francisco,  and  there  to 
embark  for  the  Philippines.  * 

That  night  he  put  the  question  to  her  directly, 
but  again  she  shook  her  head  unhappily;  again 
she  said:  "I  don't  know  I" 

So  he  sailed  without  her,  and  each  evening  at 
sunset,  as  the  great  transport  heaved  her  way 
across  the  swell  of  the  Pacific,  he  stood  at  the  rail 
and  looked  back.  With  the  aid  of  the  first  officer 
he  calculated  the  difference  in  time  between  a 
whaling  village  situated  at  forty-four  degrees 
north  and  an  army  transport  dropping  rapidly 
toward  the  equator,  and  so,  each  day,  kept  in 
step  with  the  girl  he  loved. 

13 


The  Lost  Road 

"Now,"  he  would  tell  himself,  "she  is  in  her 
cart  in  front  of  the  post-office,  and  while  they  sort 
the  morning  mail  she  gossips  with  the  fisher  folks, 
the  summer  folks,  the  grooms,  and  chauffeurs. 
Now  she  is  sitting  for  her  portrait  to  Stedman" 
(he  did  not  dwell  long  on  that  part  of  her  day), 
"and  now  she  is  at  tennis,  or,  as  she  promised, 
riding  alone  at  sunset  down  our  lost  road  through 
the  woods." 

But  that  part  of  her  day  from  which  Lee  hur 
ried  was  that  part  over  which  the  girl  herself  lin 
gered.  As  he  turned  his  eyes  from  his  canvas  to 
meet  hers,  Stedman,  the  charming,  the  deferential, 
the  adroit,  who  never  allowed  his  painting  to  in 
terrupt  his  talk,  told  her  of  what  he  was  pleased 
to  call  his  dreams  and  ambitions,  of  the  great  and 
beautiful  ladies  who  had  sat  before  his  easel,  and 
of  the  only  one  of  them  who  had  given  him  inspi 
ration.  Especially  of  the  only  one  who  had  given 
him  inspiration.  With  her  always  to  uplift  him, 
he  could  become  one  of  the  world's  most  famous 
artists,  and  she  would  go  down  into  history  as 
the  beautiful  woman  who  had  helped  him,  as  the 
wife  of  Rembrandt  had  inspired  Rembrandt,  as 
"Mona  Lisa"  had  made  Leonardo. 

Gilbert  wrote:  "It  is  not  the  lover  who  comes 
to  woo,  but  the  lover's  way  of  wooing!"  His  suc- 


The  Lost  Road 

cessful  lover  was  the  one  who  threw  the  girl  across 
his  saddle  and  rode  away  with  her.  But  one  kind 
of  woman  does  not  like  to  have  her  lover  ap 
proach  shouting:  "At  the  gallop!  Charge!" 

She  prefers  a  man  not  because  he  is  masterful, 
but  because  he  is  not.  She  likes  to  believe  the 
man  needs  her  more  than  she  needs  him,  that  she, 
and  only  she,  can  steady  him,  cheer  him,  keep 
him  true  to  the  work  he  is  in  the  world  to  per 
form.  It  is  called  the  "mothering"  instinct. 

Frances  felt  this  mothering  instinct  toward  the 
sensitive,  imaginative,  charming  Stedman.  She 
believed  he  had  but  two  thoughts,  his  art  and 
herself.  She  was  content  to  place  his  art  first. 
She  could  not  guess  that  to  one  so  unworldly,  to 
one  so  wrapped  up  in  his  art,  the  fortune  of  a 
rich  aunt  might  prove  alluring. 

When  the  transport  finally  picked  up  the  land 
falls  of  Cavite  Harbor,  Lee,  with  the  instinct  of  a 
soldier,  did  not  exclaim:  "This  is  where  Dewey 
ran  the  forts  and  sank  the  Spanish  fleet!"  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  saying:  "When  she  comes 
to  join  me,  it  will  be  here  I  will  first  see  her 
steamer.  I  will  be  waiting  with  a  field-glass  on 
the  end  of  that  wharf.  No,  I  will  be  out  here 
in  a  shore-boat  waving  my  hat.  And  of  all  those 
along  the  rail,  my  heart  will  tell  me  which  is  she!" 

15 


.The  Lost  Road 

Then  a  barefooted  Filipino  boy  handed  him  an 
unsigned  cablegram.  It  read:  "If  I  wrote  a  thou 
sand  words  I  could  not  make  it  easier  for  either 
of  us.  I  am  to  marry  Arthur  Stedman  in  De 
cember." 

Lee  was  grateful  for  the  fact  that  he  was  not 
permitted  to  linger  in  Manila.  Instead,  he  was 
at  once  ordered  up-country,  where  at  a  one-troop 
post  he  administered  the  affairs  of  a  somewhat 
hectic  province,  and  under  the  guidance  of  the 
local  constabulary  chased  will-o'-the-wisp  brig 
ands.  On  a  shelf  in  his  quarters  he  placed  the 
silver  loving-cup,  and  at  night,  when  the  village 
slept,  he  would  sit  facing  it,  filling  one  pipe  after 
another,  and  through  the  smoke  staring  at  the 
evidence  to  the  fact  that  once  Frances  Gardner 
and  he  had  been  partners. 

In  these  post-mortems  he  saw  nothing  morbid. 
With  his  present  activities  they  in  no  way  inter 
fered,  and  in  thinking  of  the  days  when  they  had 
been  together,  in  thinking  of  what  he  had  lost,  he 
found  deep  content.  Another  man,  having  lost 
the  woman  he  loved,  would  have  tried  to  forget 
her  and  all  she  meant  to  him.  But  Lee  was  far 
too  honest  with  himself  to  substitute  other 
thoughts  for  those  that  were  glorious,  that  still 
thrilled  him.  The  girl  could  take  herself  from 

16 


The  Lost  Road 

him,  but  she  could  not  take  his  love  for  her  from 
him.  And  for  that  he  was  grateful.  He  never 
had  considered  himself  worthy,  and  so  could  not 
believe  he  had  been  ill  used.  In  his  thoughts  of 
her  there  was  no  bitterness:  for  that  also  he  was 
grateful.  And,  as  he  knew  he  would  not  care  for 
any  other  woman  in  the  way  he  cared  for  her,  he 
preferred  to  care  in  that  way,  even  for  one  who 
was  lost,  than  in  a  lesser  way  for  a  possible  she 
who  some  day  might  greatly  care  for  him.  So 
she  still  remained  in  his  thoughts,  and  was  so 
constantly  with  him  that  he  led  a  dual  existence, 
in  which  by  day  he  directed  the  affairs  of  an  alien 
and  hostile  people  and  by  night  again  lived 
through  the  wonderful  moments  when  she  had 
thought  she  loved  him,  when  he  first  had  learned 
to  love  her.  At  times  she  seemed  actually  at  his 
side,  and  he  could  not  tell  whether  he  was  pre 
tending  that  this  were  so  or  whether  the  force  of 
his  love  had  projected  her  image  half  around  the 
world. 

Often,  when  in  single  file  he  led  the  men  through 
the  forest,  he  seemed  again  to  be  back  on  Cape 
Cod  picking  his  way  over  their  own  lost  road 
through  the  wood,  and  he  heard  "the  beat  of  a 
horse's  feet  and  the  swish  of  a  skirt  in  the  dew." 
And  then  a  carbine  would  rattle,  or  a  horse  would 


The  Lost  Road 

stumble  and  a  trooper  swear,  and  he  was  again 
in  the  sweating  jungle,  where  men,  intent  upon 
his  life,  crouched  in  ambush. 

She  spared  him  the  mockery  of  wedding-cards; 
but  the  announcement  of  the  wedding  came  to 
him  in  a  three-months-old  newspaper.  Hoping 
they  would  speak  of  her  in  their  letters,  he  kept 
up  a  somewhat  one-sided  correspondence  with 
friends  of  Mrs.  Stedman's  in  Boston,  where  she 
now  lived.  But  for  a  year  in  none  of  their  letters 
did  her  name  appear.  When  a  mutual  friend  did 
write  of  her  Lee  understood  the  silence. 

From  the  first,  the  mutual  friend  wrote,  the 
life  of  Mrs.  Stedman  and  her  husband  was  thor 
oughly  miserable.  Stedman  blamed  her  because 
she  came  to  him  penniless.  The  rich  aunt,  who 
had  heartily  disapproved  of  the  artist,  had  spoken 
of  him  so  frankly  that  Frances  had  quarrelled  with 
her,  and  from  her  no  longer  would  accept  money. 
In  his  anger  at  this  Stedman  showed  himself  to 
Frances  as  he  was.  And  only  two  months  after 
their  marriage  she  was  further  enlightened. 

An  irate  husband  made  him  the  central  figure 
in  a  scandal  that  filled  the  friends  of  Frances  with 
disgust,  and  that  for  her  was  an  awakening  cruel 
and  humiliating.  Men  no  longer  permitted  their 
womenfolk  to  sit  to  Stedman  for  a  portrait,  and 

18 


The  Lost  Road 

the  need  of  money  grew  imperative.  He  the  more 
blamed  Frances  for  having  quarrelled  with  her 
aunt,  told  her  it  was  for  her  money  he  had  mar 
ried  her,  that  she  had  ruined  his  career,  and  that 
she  was  to  blame  for  his  ostracism — a  condition 
that  his  own  misconduct  had  brought  upon  him. 
Finally,  after  twelve  months  of  this,  one  morning 
he  left  a  note  saying  he  no  longer  would  allow  her 
to  be  a  drag  upon  him,  and  sailed  for  Europe. 

They  learned  that,  in  Paris,  he  had  returned  to 
that  life  which  before  his  marriage,  even  in  that 
easy-going  city,  had  made  him  notorious.  "And 
Frances,"  continued  Lee's  correspondent,  "has 
left  Boston,  and  now  lives  in  New  York.  She 
wouldn't  let  any  of  us  help  her,  nor  even  know 
where  she  is.  The  last  we  heard  of  her  she  was 
in  charge  of  the  complaint  department  of  a  mil 
linery  shop,  for  which  work  she  was  receiving 
about  the  same  wages  I  give  my  cook." 

Lee  did  not  stop  to  wonder  why  the  same 
woman,  who  to  one  man  was  a  "drag,"  was  to 
another,  even  though  separated  from  her  by  half 
the  world,  a  joy  and  a  blessing.  Instead,  he 
promptly  wrote  his  lawyers  to  find  Mrs.  Sted- 
man,  and,  in  such  a  way  as  to  keep  her  ignorant 
of  their  good  offices,  see  that  she  obtained  a  posi 
tion  more  congenial  than  her  present  one,  and  one 

19 


The  Lost  Road 

that  would  pay  her  as  much  as,  without  arousing 
her  suspicions,  they  found  it  possible  to  give. 

Three  months  had  passed,  and  this  letter  had 
not  been  answered,  when  in  Manila,  where  he  had 
been  ordered  to  make  a  report,  he  heard  of  her 
again.  One  evening,  when  the  band  played  on 
the  Luneta,  he  met  a  newly  married  couple  who 
had  known  him  in  Agawamsett.  They  now  were 
on  a  ninety-day  cruise  around  the  world.  Close 
friends  of  Frances  Gardner,  they  remembered  him 
as  one  of  her  many  devotees  and  at  once  spoke  of 
her. 

"That  blackguard  she  married,"  the  bride 
groom  told  him,  "was  killed  three  months  ago 
racing  with  another  car  from  Versailles  back  to 
Paris  after  a  dinner  at  which,  it  seems,  all  present 
drank  'burgundy  out  of  the  finger-bowls.'  Com 
ing  down  that  steep  hill  into  Saint  Cloud,  the 
cars  collided,  and  Stedman  and  a  woman,  whose 
husband  thought  she  was  somewhere  else,  were 
killed.  He  couldn't  even  die  without  making  a 
scandal  of  it." 

"But  the  worst,"  added  the  bride,  "is  that,  in 
spite  of  the  way  the  little  beast  treated  her,  I  be 
lieve  Frances  still  cares  for  him,  and  always  will. 
That's  the  worst  of  it,  isn't  it?"  she  demanded. 

In  words,  Lee  did  not  answer,  but  in  his  heart  he 
20 


The  Lost  Road 

agreed  that  was  much  the  worst  of  it.  The  fact 
that  Frances  was  free  filled  him  with  hope;  but 
that  she  still  cared  for  the  man  she  had  married, 
and  would  continue  to  think  only  of  him,  made 
him  ill  with  despair. 

He  cabled  his  lawyers  for  her  address.  He  de 
termined  that,  at  once,  on  learning  it,  he  would 
tell  her  that  with  him  nothing  was  changed.  He 
had  forgotten  nothing,  and  had  learned  much. 
He  had  learned  that  his  love  for  her  was  a  splendid 
and  inspiring  passion,  that  even  without  her  it 
had  lifted  him  up,  helped  and  cheered  him,  made 
the  whole  world  kind  and  beautiful.  With  her 
he  could  not  picture  a  world  so  complete  with 
happiness. 

Since  entering  the  army  he  had  never  taken  a 
leave  of  absence,  and  he  was  sure,  if  now  he  asked 
for  one,  it  would  not  be  refused.  He  determined, 
if  the  answer  to  his  cable  gave  him  her  address, 
he  would  return  at  once,  and  again  offer  her  his 
love,  which  he  now  knew  was  deeper,  finer,  and 
infinitely  more  tender  than  the  love  he  first  had 
felt  for  her.  But  the  cable  balked  him.  "Ad 
dress  unknown,"  it  read;  "believed  to  have  gone 
abroad  in  capacity  of  governess.  Have  employed 
foreign  agents.  Will  cable  their  report." 

Whether  to  wait  for  and  be  guided  by  the  report 
21 


The  Lost  Road 

of  the  detectives,  or  to  proceed  to  Europe  and 
search  for  her  himself,  Lee  did  not  know.  He 
finally  determined  that  to  seek  for  her  with  no 
clew  to  her  whereabouts  would  be  but  a  waste  of 
precious  moments,  while,  if  in  their  search  the 
agents  were  successful,  he  would  be  able  to  go 
directly  to  her.  Meanwhile,  by  cable,  he  asked  for 
protracted  leave  of  absence  and,  while  waiting  for 
his  answer,  returned  to  his  post.  There,  within 
a  week,  he  received  his  leave  of  absence,  but  in  a 
fashion  that  threatened  to  remove  him  forever 
from  the  army. 

The  constabulary  had  located  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp  brigands  behind  a  stockade  built  about  an 
extinct  volcano,  and  Lee  and  his  troop  and  a 
mountain  battery  attempted  to  dislodge  them. 
In  the  fight  that  followed  Lee  covered  his  brows 
with  laurel  wreaths  and  received  two  bullet 
wounds  in  his  body. 

For  a  month  death  stood  at  the  side  of  his  cot; 
and  then,  still  weak  and  at  times  delirious  with 
fever,  by  slow  stages  he  was  removed  to  the  hos 
pital  in  Manila.  In  one  of  his  sane  moments  a 
cable  was  shown  him.  It  read :  "Whereabouts  still 
unknown."  Lee  at  once  rebelled  against  his  doc 
tors.  He  must  rise,  he  declared,  and  proceed  to 
Europe.  It  was  upon  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

22 


The  Lost  Road 

The  surgeons  assured  him  his  remaining  exactly 
where  he  was  also  was  a  matter  of  as  great  con 
sequence.  Lee's  knowledge  of  his  own  lack  of 
strength  told  him  they  were  right. 

Then,  from  headquarters,  he  was  informed  that, 
as  a  reward  for  his  services  and  in  recognition  of 
his  approaching  convalescence,  he  was  ordered  to 
return  to  his  own  climate  and  that  an  easy  billet 
had  been  found  for  him  as  a  recruiting  officer  in 
New  York  City.  Believing  the  woman  he  loved 
to  be  in  Europe,  this  plan  for  his  comfort  only 
succeeded  in  bringing  on  a  relapse.  But  the  day 
following  there  came  another  cablegram.  It  put 
an  abrupt  end  to  his  mutiny,  and  brought  him 
and  the  War  Department  into  complete  accord. 

"She  is  in  New  York,"  it  read,  "acting  as  agent 
for  a  charitable  institution,  which  one  not  known, 
but  hope  in  a  few  days  to  cable  correct  address." 

In  all  the  world  there  was  no  man  so  happy. 
The  next  morning  a  transport  was  sailing,  and, 
probably  because  they  had  read  the  cablegram,  the 
surgeons  agreed  with  Lee  that  a  sea  voyage  would 
do  him  no  harm.  He  was  carried  on  board,  and 
when  the  propellers  first  churned  the  water  and 
he  knew  he  was  moving  toward  her,  the  hero  of 
the  fight  around  the  crater  shed  unmanly  tears. 
He  would  see  her  again,  hear  her  voice;  the  same 

23 


The  Lost  Road 

great  city  would  shelter  them.  It  was  worth  a 
dozen  bullets. 

He  reached  New  York  in  a  snow-storm,  a  week 
before  Christmas,  and  went  straight  to  the  office 
of  his  lawyers.  They  received  him  with  embar 
rassment.  Six  weeks  before,  on  the  very  day  they 
had  cabled  him  that  Mrs.  Stedman  was  in  New 
York,  she  had  left  the  charitable  institution  where 
she  had  been  employed,  and  had  again  disappeared. 

Lee  sent  his  trunks  to  the  Army  and  Navy  Club, 
which  was  immediately  around  the  corner  from 
the  recruiting  office  in  Sixth  Avenue,  and  began 
discharging  telegrams  at  every  one  who  had  ever 
known  Frances  Gardner.  The  net  result  was  dis 
couraging.  In  the  year  and  a  half  in  which  he 
had  been  absent  every  friend  of  the  girl  he  sought 
had  temporarily  changed  his  place  of  residence  or 
was  permanently  dead. 

Meanwhile  his  arrival  by  the  transport  was  an 
nounced  in  the  afternoon  papers.  At  the  wharf 
an  admiring  trooper  had  told  a  fine  tale  of  his  con 
duct  at  the  battle  of  the  crater,  and  reporters 
called  at  the  club  to  see  him.  He  did  not  dis 
courage  them,  as  he  hoped  through  them  the  fact 
of  his  return  might  be  made  known  to  Frances. 
She  might  send  him  a  line  of  welcome,  and  he 
would  discover  her  whereabouts.  But,  though 

24 


The  Lost  Road 

many  others  sent  him  hearty  greetings,  from  her 
there  was  no  word. 

On  the  second  day  after  his  arrival  one  of  the 
telegrams  was  answered  in  person  by  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Stedman.  He  knew  only  that  she  had  been 
in  New  York,  that  she  was  very  poor  and  in  ill 
health,  that  she  shunned  all  of  her  friends,  and 
was  earning  her  living  as  the  matron  of  some  sort 
of  a  club  for  working  girls.  He  did  not  know  the 
name  of  it. 

On  the  third  day  there  still  was  no  news.  On 
the  fourth  Lee  decided  that  the  next  morning 
he  would  advertise.  He  would  say  only:  "Will 
Mrs.  Arthur  Stedman  communicate  with  Messrs. 
Fuller  &  Fuller?"  Fuller  &  Fuller  were  his  law 
yers.  That  afternoon  he  remained  until  six  o'clock 
at  the  recruiting  office,  and  when  he  left  it  the  elec 
tric  street  lights  were  burning  brightly.  A  heavy 
damp  snow  was  falling,  and  the  lights  and  the  fall 
ing  flakes  and  the  shouts  of  drivers  and  the  toots 
of  taxicabs  made  for  the  man  from  the  tropics  a 
welcome  home-coming. 

Instead  of  returning  at  once  to  his  club,  he 
slackened  his  steps.  The  shop  windows  of  Sixth 
Avenue  hung  with  Christmas  garlands,  and  col 
ored  lamps  glowed  like  open  fireplaces.  Lee 
passed  slowly  before  them,  glad  that  he  had  been 

25 


The  Lost  Road 

able  to  get  back  at  such  a  season.  For  the 
moment  he  had  forgotten  the  woman  he  sought, 
and  was  conscious  only  of  his  surroundings.  He 
had  paused  in  front  of  the  window  of  a  pawn-shop. 
Over  the  array  of  cheap  jewelry,  of  banjos,  shot 
guns,  and  razors,  his  eyes  moved  idly.  And  then 
they  became  transfixed  and  staring.  In  the  very 
front  of  the  window,  directly  under  his  nose,  was 
a  tarnished  silver  loving-cup.  On  it  was  engraved 
"Mixed  Doubles.  Agawamsett,  1910."  In  all 
the  world  there  were  only  two  such  cups,  and  as 
though  he  were  dodging  the  slash  of  a  bolo,  Lee 
leaped  into  the  shop.  Many  precious  seconds 
were  wasted  in  persuading  Mrs.  Cohen  that  he  did 
not  believe  the  cup  had  been  stolen;  that  he  was 
not  from  the  Central  Office;  that  he  believed  the 
lady  who  had  pawned  the  cup  had  come  by  it 
honestly;  that  he  meant  no  harm  to  the  lady;  that 
he  meant  no  harm  to  Mrs.  Cohen;  that,  much  as 
the  young  lady  may  have  needed  the  money  Mrs. 
Cohen  had  loaned  her  on  the  cup,  he  needed  the 
address  of  the  young  lady  still  more. 

Mrs.  Cohen  retired  behind  a  screen,  and  Lee  was 
conscious  that  from  the  other  side  of  it  the  whole 
family  of  Cohens  were  taking  his  measurements. 
He  approved  of  their  efforts  to  protect  the  owner 
of  the  cup,  but  not  from  him. 

26 


c. 


The  Lost  Road 

He  offered,  if  one  of  the  younger  Cohens  would 
take  him  to  the  young  lady,  to  let  him  first  ask 
her  if  she  would  receive  Captain  Lee,  and  for  his 
service  he  would  give  the  young  Cohen  untold 
gold.  He  exhibited  the  untold  gold.  The  young 
Cohen  choked  at  the  sight  and  sprang  into  the 
seat  beside  the  driver  of  a  taxicab. 

"To  the  Working  Girls'  Home,  on  Tenth 
Street!"  he  commanded. 

Through  the  falling  snow  and  the  flashing  lights 
they  slid,  skidded,  and  leaped.  Inside  the  cab 
Lee  shivered  with  excitement,  with  cold,  with 
fear  that  it  might  not  be  true.  He  could  not 
realize  she  was  near.  It  was  easier  to  imagine  him 
self  still  in  the  jungle,  with  months  of  time  and 
sixteen  thousand  miles  of  land  and  water  sepa 
rating  them;  or  in  the  hospital,  on  a  white-enamel 
cot,  watching  the  shadow  creep  across  the  white 
washed  wall;  or  lying  beneath  an  awning  that  did 
not  move,  staring  at  a  burning,  brazen  sea  that 
did  not  move,  on  a  transport  that,  timed  by  the 
beating  of  his  heart,  stood  still. 

Those  days  were  within  the  radius  of  his  experi 
ence.  Separation,  absence,  the  immutable  giants 
of  time  and  space,  he  knew.  With  them  he  had 
fought  and  could  withstand  them.  But  to  be 
near  her,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  bring  his  love  into 

27 


The  Lost  Road 

her  actual  presence,  that  was  an  attack  upon  his 
feelings  which  found  him  without  weapons.  That 
for  a  very  few  dollars  she  had  traded  the  cup 
from  which  she  had  sworn  never  to  part  did  not 
concern  him.  Having  parted  from  him,  what  she 
did  with  a  silver  mug  was  of  little  consequence. 
It  was  of  significance  only  in  that  it  meant  she 
was  poor.  And  that  she  was  either  an  inmate  or  a 
matron  of  a  lodging-house  for  working  girls  also 
showed  she  was  poor. 

He  had  been  told  that  was  her  condition,  and 
that  she  was  in  ill  health,  and  that  from  all  who 
loved  her  she  had  refused  to  accept  help.  At  the 
thought  his  jaws  locked  pugnaciously.  There  was 
one  who  loved  her,  who,  should  she  refuse  his  aid, 
was  prepared  to  make  her  life  intolerable.  He 
planned  in  succession  at  lightning  speed  all  he 
might  do  for  her.  Among  other  things  he  would 
make  this  Christmas  the  happiest  she  or  he  would 
ever  know.  Not  for  an  instant  did  he  question 
that  she  who  had  refused  help  from  all  who  loved 
her  could  refuse  anything  he  offered.  For  he 
knew  it  was  offered  with  a  love  that  demanded 
nothing  in  return,  with  a  love  that  asked  only  to 
be  allowed  to  love,  and  to  serve.  To  refuse  help 
inspired  by  such  a  feeling  as  his  would  be  morbid, 
wicked,  ridiculous,  as  though  a  flower  refused  to 

28 


The  Lost  Road 

turn  its  face  to  the  sun,  and  shut  its  lips  to  the 
dew. 

The  cab  stopped  in  front  of  a  brick  building 
adorned  with  many  fire-escapes.  Afterward  he 
remembered  a  bare,  brilliantly  lit  hall  hung  with 
photographs  of  the  Acropolis,  and  a  stout,  capable 
woman  in  a  cap,  who  looked  him  over  and  said : 

"You  will  find  Mrs.  Stedman  in  the  writing- 
room." 

And  he  remembered  entering  a  room  filled  with 
Mission  furniture  and  reading-lamps  under  green 
shades.  It  was  empty,  except  for  a  young  girl  in 
deep  black,  who  was  seated  facing  him,  her  head 
bent  above  a  writing-desk.  As  he  came  into  the 
circle  of  the  lamps  the  girl  raised  her  eyes  and  as 
though  lifted  to  her  feet  by  what  she  saw,  and 
through  no  effort  of  her  own,  stood  erect. 

And  the  young  man  who  had  persuaded  himself 
his  love  demanded  nothing,  who  asked  only  to 
worship  at  her  gate,  found  his  arms  reaching  out, 
and  heard  his  voice  as  though  it  came  from  a  great 
distance,  cry,  "Frances!" 

And  the  girl  who  had  refused  the  help  of  all  who 
loved  her,  like  a  homing  pigeon  walked  straight 
into  the  outstretched  arms. 

After  five  minutes,  when  he  was  almost  able  to 
believe  it  was  true,  he  said  in  his  commanding, 

29 


The  Lost  Road 

masterful  way:  "And  now  I'm  going  to  take  you 
out  of  here.  I'm  going  to  buy  you  a  ring,  and  a 
sable  coat,  and  a  house  to  live  in,  and  a  dinner. 
Which  shall  we  buy  first?" 

"First,"  said  Frances,  frowning  happily,  "I  am 
afraid  we  must  go  to  the  Ritz,  to  tell  Aunt  Emily. 
She  always  loved  you,  and  it  will  make  her  so 
happy." 

"To  the  Ritz!"  stammered  the  young  man. 
"To  Aunt  Emily!  I  thought  they  told  me  your 
aunt  and — you " 

"We  quarrelled,  yes,"  said  Frances,  "and  she 
has  forgiven  me;  but  she  has  not  forgiven  herself, 
so  she  spoils  me,  and  already  I  have  a  house  to  live 
in,  and  several  sable  coats,  and,  oh!  everything, 
everything  but  the  ring." 

"I  am  so  sorry!"  cried  Lee.  "I  thought  you 
were  poor.  I  hoped  you  were  poor.  But  you  are 
joking!"  he  exclaimed  delightedly.  "You  are  here 
in  a  working  girls'  home " 

"It  is  one  of  Aunt  Emily's  charities.  She  built  it,'* 
said  Frances.  "I  come  here  to  talk  to  the  girls." 

"But,"  persisted  Lee  triumphantly,  "if  you  are 
not  poor,  why  did  you  pawn  our  silver  loving-cup  ? " 

The  face  of  the  girl  became  a  lovely  crimson,  and 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes.  As  though  at  a  confes 
sional,  she  lifted  her  hands  penitently. 

30 


The  Lost  Road 

"Try  to  understand,"  she  begged;  "I  wanted 
you  to  love  me,  not  for  my  money " 

"But  you  knew!"  cried  Lee. 

"I  had  to  be  sure,"  begged  the  girl;  "and  I 
wanted  to  believe  you  loved  me  even  if  I  did  not 
love  you.  When  it  was  too  late  I  knew  you  loved 
me  as  no  woman  ever  deserved  to  be  loved;  and  I 
wanted  that  love.  I  could  not  live  without  it. 
So  when  I  read  in  the  papers  you  had  returned  I 
wouldn't  let  myself  write  you;  I  wouldn't  let  my 
self  beg  you  to  come  to  see  me.  I  set  a  test  for 
you.  I  knew  from  the  papers  you  were  at  the 
Army  and  Navy  Club,  and  that  around  the  corner 
was  the  recruiting  office.  I'd  often  seen  the  ser 
geant  there,  in  uniform,  at  the  door.  I  knew  you 
must  pass  from  your  club  to  the  office  many  times 
each  day,  so  I  thought  of  the  loving-cup  and  the 
pawn-shop.  I  planted  it  there.  It  was  a  trick,  a 
test.  I  thought  if  you  saw  it  in  a  pawn-shop  you 
would  believe  I  no  longer  cared  for  you,  and  that 
I  was  very  poor.  If  you  passed  it  by,  then  I  would 
know  you  yourself  had  stopped  caring,  but  if  you 
asked  about  it,  if  you  inquired  for  me,  then  I  would 
know  you  came  to  me  of  your  own  wish,  because 


you- 


Lee  shook  his  head. 

"You   don't   have  to  tell  me,"  he  said  gently, 


The  Lost  Road 

"why  I  came.  I've  a  cab  outside.  You  will  get 
in  it,"  he  commanded,  "and  we  will  rescue  our 
cup.  I  always  told  you  they  would  look  well  to 
gether  over  an  open  fireplace.". 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS  PALMAS 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  LAS   PALMAS 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  gallant  officer  who  loved 
his  profession,  his  regiment,  his  country,  but 
above  all,  whiskey;  of  his  miraculous  conversion  to 
total  abstinence,  and  of  the  humble  instrument 
that  worked  the  miracle.  At  the  time  it  was 
worked,  a  battalion  of  the  Thirty-third  Infantry 
had  been  left  behind  to  guard  the  Zone,  and  was 
occupying  impromptu  barracks  on  the  hill  above 
Las  Palmas.  That  was  when  Las  Palmas  was  one 
of  the  four  thousand  stations  along  the  forty  miles 
of  the  Panama  Railroad.  When  the  railroad  was 
"reconstructed"  the  name  of  Las  Palmas  did  not 
appear  on  the  new  time-table,  and  when  this  story 
appears  Las  Palmas  will  be  eighty  feet  under 
water.  So  if  any  one  wishes  to  dispute  the  miracle 
he  will  have  to  conduct  his  investigation  in  a 
diving-bell. 

On  this  particular  evening  young  Major  Aintree, 
in  command  of  the  battalion,  had  gone  up  the  line 
to  Panama  to  dine  at  the  Hotel  Tivoli,  and  had 
dined  well.  To  prevent  his  doing  this  a  paternal 

35 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

government  had  ordered  that  at  the  Tivoli  no 
alcoholic  liquors  may  be  sold;  but  only  two  hun 
dred  yards  from  the  hotel,  outside  the  zone  of  tem 
perance,  lies  Panama  and  Angelina's,  and  during 
the  dinner,  between  the  Tivoli  and  Angelina's,  the 
Jamaican  waiter-boys  ran  relay  races. 

After  the  dinner,  the  Jamaican  waiter-boys  prov 
ing  too  slow,  the  dinner-party  in  a  body  adjourned 
to  Angelina's,  and  when  later,  Major  Aintree 
moved  across  the  street  to  the  night  train  to  Las 
Palmas,  he  moved  unsteadily. 

Young  Standish  of  the  Canal  Zone  police,  who, 
though  but  twenty-six,  was  a  full  corporal,  was  for 
that  night  on  duty  as  "train  guard,"  and  was 
waiting  at  the  rear  steps  of  the  last  car.  As  Ain 
tree  approached  the  steps  he  saw  indistinctly  a 
boyish  figure  in  khaki,  and,  mistaking  it  for  one  of 
his  own  men,  he  clasped  the  handrail  for  support, 
and  halted  frowning. 

Observing  the  condition  of  the  officer  the  police 
man  also  frowned,  but  in  deference  to  the  uniform, 
slowly  and  with  reluctance  raised  his  hand  to  his 
sombrero.  The  reluctance  was  more  apparent 
than  the  salute.  It  was  less  of  a  salute  than  an 
impertinence. 

Partly  out  of  regard  for  his  rank,  partly  from 
temper,  chiefly  from  whiskey,  Aintree  saw  scarlet. 

36  " 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"When  you  s'lute  your  s'perior  officer,"  he 
shouted,  "you  s'lute  him  quick.  You  unner- 
stan',  you  s'lute  him  quick!  S'lute  me  again,"  he 
commanded,  "and  s'lute  me  damn  quick." 

Standish  remained  motionless.  As  is  the  habit 
of  policemen  over  all  the  world,  his  thumbs  were 
stuck  in  his  belt.  He  answered  without  offence, 
in  tones  matter-of-fact  and  calm. 

"You  are  not  my  superior  officer,"  he  said. 

It  was  the  calmness  that  irritated  Aintree.  His 
eyes  sought  for  the  infantryman's  cap  and  found  a 
sombrero. 

"You  damned  leatherneck,"  he  began,  "I'll 
report " 

"I'm  not  a  marine,  either,"  interrupted  Stand 
ish.  "I'm  a  policeman.  Move  on,"  he  ordered, 
"you're  keeping  these  people  waiting." 

Others  of  the  dinner-party  formed  a  flying  wedge 
around  Aintree  and  crowded  him  up  the  steps  and 
into  a  seat  and  sat  upon  him.  Ten  minutes  later, 
when  Standish  made  his  rounds  of  the  cars,  Ain 
tree  saw  him  approaching.  He  had  a  vague  recol 
lection  that  he  had  been  insulted,  and  by  a  police 
man. 

"You!"  he  called,  and  so  loudly  that  all  in  the 
car  turned,  "I'm  going  to  report  you,  going  to  re 
port  you  for  insolence.  What's  your  name?" 

37 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

Looking  neither  at  Aintree  nor  at  the  faces 
turned  toward  him,  Standish  replied  as  though 
Aintree  had  asked  him  what  time  it  was. 

"Standish,"  he  said,  "corporal,  shield  number 
226,  on  train  guard."  He  continued  down  the 
aisle. 

"I'll  remember  you"  Aintree  shouted. 

But  in  the  hot  glaring  dawn  of  the  morning 
after,  Aintree  forgot.  It  was  Standish  who  re 
membered. 

The  men  of  the  Zone  police  are  hand-picked. 
They  have  been  soldiers,  marines,  cowboys,  sheriffs, 
"Black  Hussars"  of  the  Pennsylvania  State  con 
stabulary,  rough  riders  with  Roosevelt,  mounted 
police  in  Canada,  irregular  horse  in  South  Africa; 
they  form  one  of  the  best-organized,  best-disci 
plined,  most  efficient,  most  picturesque  semi-mili 
tary  bodies  in  the  world.  Standish  joined  them 
from  the  Philippine  constabulary  in  which  he  had 
been  a  second  lieutenant.  There  are  several  like 
him  in  the  Zone  police,  and  in  England  they  would 
be  called  gentlemen  rankers.  On  the  Isthmus,  be 
cause  of  his  youth,  his  fellow  policemen  called 
Standish  "Kid."  And  smart  as  each  of  them  was, 
each  of  them  admitted  the  Kid  wore  his  uniform 
with  a  difference.  With  him  it  always  looked  as 
though  it  had  come  freshly  ironed  from  the  Colon 

38 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

laundry;  his  leather  leggings  shone  like  meer 
schaum  pipes;  the  brim  of  his  sombrero  rested  im 
pudently  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 

"He's  been  an  officer,"  they  used  to  say  in  ex 
tenuation.  "You  can  tell  when  he  salutes.  He 
shows  the  back  of  his  hand."  Secretly,  they  were 
proud  of  him.  Standish  came  of  a  long  chain  of 
soldiers,  and  that  the  weakest  link  in  the  chain  had 
proved  to  be  himself  was  a  sorrow  no  one  else  but 
himself  could  fathom.  Since  he  was  three  years 
old  he  had  been  trained  to  be  a  soldier,  as  care 
fully,  with  the  same  singleness  of  purpose,  as  the 
crown  prince  is  trained  to  be  a  king.  And  when, 
after  three  happy,  glorious  years  at  West  Point, 
he  was  found  not  clever  enough  to  pass  the  exam 
inations  and  was  dropped,  he  did  not  curse  the 
gods  and  die,  but  began  again  to  work  his  way  up. 
He  was  determined  he  still  would  wear  shoulder- 
straps.  He  owed  it  to  his  ancestors.  It  was  the 
tradition  of  his  family,  the  one  thing  he  wanted; 
it  was  his  religion.  He  would  get  into  the  army 
even  if  by  the  side  door,  if  only  after  many  years 
of  rough  and  patient  service.  He  knew  that  some 
day,  through  his  record,  through  the  opportunity 
of  a  war,  he  would  come  into  his  inheritance. 
Meanwhile  he  officered  his  soul,  disciplined  his 
body,  and  daily  tried  to  learn  the  lesson  that  he 

39 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

who  hopes  to  control  others  must  first  control 
himself. 

He  allowed  himself  but  one  dissipation,  one 
excess.  That  was  to  hate  Major  Aintree,  com 
manding  the  Thirty-third  Infantry.  Of  all  the 
world  could  give,  Aintree  possessed  everything 
that  Standish  considered  the  most  to  be  de 
sired.  He  was  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  he  had 
seen  service  in  Cuba,  in  the  Boxer  business,  and  in 
the  Philippines.  For  an  act  of  conspicuous  cour 
age  at  Batangas,  he  had  received  the  medal  of 
honor.  He  had  had  the  luck  of  the  devil.  Wher 
ever  he  held  command  turned  out  to  be  the  place 
where  things  broke  loose.  And  Aintree  always  at 
tacked  and  routed  them,  always  was  the  man  on 
the  job.  It  was  his  name  that  appeared  in  the 
newspapers,  it  was  his  name  that  headed  the  list 
of  the  junior  officers  mentioned  for  distinguished 
conduct.  Standish  had  followed  his  career  with 
an  admiration  and  a  joy  that  was  without  taint 
of  envy  or  detraction.  He  gloried  in  Aintree,  he 
delighted  to  know  the  army  held  such  a  man.  He 
was  grateful  to  Aintree  for  upholding  the  tradi 
tions  of  a  profession  to  which  he  himself  gave 
all  the  devotion  of  a  fanatic.  He  made  a  god 
of  him.  This  was  his  attitude  of  mind  toward 
Aintree  before  he  came  to  the  Isthmus.  Up  to 

40 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

that  time  he  had  never  seen  his  idol.  Aintree 
had  been  only  a  name  signed  to  brilliant  articles 
in  the  service  magazines,  a  man  of  whom  those 
who  had  served  with  him  or  under  him,  when  asked 
concerning  him,  spoke  with  loyalty  and  awe,  the 
man  the  newspapers  called  "the  hero  of  Batangas." 
And  when  at  last  he  saw  his  hero,  he  believed  his 
worship  was  justified.  For  Aintree  looked  the 
part.  He  was  built  like  a  greyhound  with  the 
shoulders  of  a  stevedore.  His  chin  was  as  pro 
jecting,  and  as  hard,  as  the  pointed  end  of  a  flat- 
iron.  His  every  movement  showed  physical  fit 
ness,  and  his  every  glance  and  tone  a  confidence 
in  himself  that  approached  insolence.  He  was 
thirty-eight,  twelve  years  older  than  the  youth 
who  had  failed  to  make  his  commission,  and  who 
as  Aintree  strode  past,  looked  after  him  with  wist 
ful,  hero-worshipping  eyes.  The  revulsion,  when 
it  came,  was  extreme.  The  hero-worship  gave  way 
to  contempt,  to  indignant  condemnation,  in  which 
there  was  no  pity,  no  excuse.  That  one  upon 
whom  so  much  had  been  lavished,  who  for  him 
self  had  accomplished  such  good  things,  should 
bring  disgrace  upon  his  profession,  should  by  his 
example  demoralize  his  men,  should  risk  losing  all 
he  had  attained,  all  that  had  been  given,  was  in 
tolerable.  When  Standish  learned  his  hero  was  a 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

drunkard,  when  day  after  day  Aintree  furnished 
visible  evidences  of  that  fact,  Standish  felt  Ain 
tree  had  betrayed  him  and  the  army  and  the  gov 
ernment  that  had  educated,  trained,  clothed,  and 
fed  him.  He  regarded  Aintree  as  worse  than  Ben 
edict  Arnold,  because  Arnold  had  turned  traitor 
for  power  and  money;  Aintree  was  a  traitor  through 
mere  weakness,  because  he  could  not  say  "no"  to  a 
bottle. 

Only  in  secret  Standish  railed  against  Aintree. 
When  his  brother  policemen  gossiped  and  jested 
about  him,  out  of  loyalty  to  the  army  he  remained 
silent.  But  in  his  heart  he  could  not  forgive. 
The  man  he  had  so  generously  envied,  the  man 
after  whose  career  he  had  wished  to  model  his 
own,  had  voluntarily  stepped  from  his  pedestal 
and  made  a  swine  of  himself.  And  not  only 
could  he  not  forgive,  but  as  day  after  day  Aintree 
furnished  fresh  food  for  his  indignation  he  felt  a 
fierce  desire  to  punish. 

Meanwhile,  of  the  conduct  of  Aintree,  men  older 
and  wiser,  if  less  intolerant  than  Standish,  were 
beginning  to  take  notice.  It  was  after  a  dinner 
on  Ancon  Hill,  and  the  women  had  left  the  men  to 
themselves.  They  were  the  men  who  were  placing 
the  Panama  Canal  on  the  map.  They  were  officers 
of  the  army  who  for  five  years  had  not  worn  a  uni- 

42 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

form.  But  for  five  years  they  had  been  at  war 
with  an  enemy  that  never  slept.  Daily  they  had 
engaged  in  battle  with  mountains,  rivers,  swamps, 
two  oceans,  and  disease.  Where  Aintree  com 
manded  five  hundred  soldiers,  they  commanded  a 
body  of  men  better  drilled,  better  disciplined,  and 
in  number  half  as  many  as  those  who  formed  the 
entire  army  of  the  United  States.  The  mind  of 
each  was  occupied  with  a  world  problem.  They 
thought  and  talked  in  millions — of  millions  of  cu 
bic  yards  of  dirt,  of  millions  of  barrels  of  cement, 
of  millions  of  tons  of  steel,  of  hundreds  of  millions 
of  dollars  of  which  latter  each  received  enough  to 
keep  himself  and  his  family  just  beyond  the  reach 
of  necessity.  To  these  men  with  the  world  wait 
ing  upon  the  outcome  of  their  endeavor,  with  re 
sponsibilities  that  never  relaxed,  Aintree's  be 
havior  was  an  incident,  an  annoyance  of  less  im 
portance  than  an  overturned  dirt  train  that  for 
five  minutes  dared  to  block  the  completion  of  their 
work.  But  they  were  human  and  loyal  to  the 
army,  and  in  such  an  infrequent  moment  as  this 
over  the  coffee  and  cigars  they  could  afford  to  re 
member  the  junior  officer,  to  feel  sorry  for  him,  for 
the  sake  of  the  army,  to  save  him  from  himself. 
"He  takes  his  orders  direct  from  the  War  De 
partment,"  said  the  chief.  "I've  no  authority 

43 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

over  him.     If  he'd  been  one  of  my  workmen  I'd 
have  shipped  him  north  three  months  ago." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  surgeon,  "he's  not  a  work 
man.  He  has  nothing  to  do,  and  idleness  is  the 
curse  of  the  army.  And  in  this  climate " 

"Nothing  to  do!"  snorted  the  civil  administra 
tor.  "Keeping  his  men  in  hand  is  what  he  has  to 
do!  "They're  running  amuck  all  over  Panama, 
getting  into  fights  with  the  Spiggoty  police,  bring 
ing  the  uniform  into  contempt.  As  for  the  cli 
mate,  it's  the  same  climate  for  all  of  us.  Look  at 
Butler's  marines  and  Barber's  Zone  police.  The 
climate  hasn't  hurt  them.  They're  as  smart  men 
as  ever  wore  khaki.  It's  not  the  climate  or  lack 
of  work  that  ails  the  Thirty-third,  it's  their  com 
manding  officer.  'So  the  colonel,  so  the  regiment/ 
That's  as  old  as  the  hills.  Until  Aintree  takes  a 
brace,  his  men  won't.  Some  one  ought  to  talk  to 
him.  It's  a  shame  to  see  a  fine  fellow  like  that 
going  to  the  dogs  because  no  one  has  the  courage 
to  tell  him  the  truth." 

The  chief  smiled  mockingly. 

"Then  why  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  a  civilian,"  protested  the  administrator. 
"If  I  told  him  he  was  going  to  the  dogs  he'd  tell 
me  to  go  to  the  devil.  No,  one  of  you  army  men 
must  do  it.  He'll  listen  to  you." 

44 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

Young  Captain  Haldane  of  the  cavalry  was  at 
the  table;  he  was  visiting  Panama  on  leave  as  a 
tourist.  The  chief  turned  to  him. 

"Haldane's  the  man,"  he  said.  "You're  his 
friend  and  you're  his  junior  in  rank,  so  what  you 
say  won't  sound  official.  Tell  him  people  are 
talking;  tell  him  it  won't  be  long  before  they'll  be 
talking  in  Washington.  Scare  him!" 

The  captain  of  cavalry  smiled  dubiously. 

"Aintree's  a  hard  man  to  scare,"  he  said. 
"But  if  it's  as  bad  as  you  all  seem  to  think,  I'll 
risk  it.  But,  why  is  it,"  he  complained,  "that 
whenever  a  man  has  to  be  told  anything  partic 
ularly  unpleasant  they  always  pick  on  his  best 
friend  to  tell  him?  It  makes  them  both  miser 
able.  Why  not  let  his  bitterest  enemy  try  it  ?  The 
enemy  at  least  would  have  a  fine  time." 

"Because,"  said  the  chief,  "Aintree  hasn't  an 
enemy  in  the  world — except  Aintree." 

The  next  morning,  as  he  had  promised,  Haldane 
called  upon  his  friend.  When  he  arrived  at  Las 
Palmas,  although  the  morning  was  well  advanced 
toward  noon,  he  found  Aintree  still  under  his  mos 
quito  bars  and  awake  only  to  command  a  drink. 
The  situation  furnished  Haldane  with  his  text. 
He  expressed  his  opinion  of  any  individual,  friend 
or  no  friend,  officer  or  civilian,  who,  on  the  Zone 

45 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

where  all  men  begin  work  at  sunrise,  could  be 
found  at  noon  still  in  his  pajamas  and  preparing 
to  face  the  duties  of  the  day  on  an  absinthe  cock 
tail.  He  said  further  that  since  he  had  arrived 
on  the  isthmus  he  had  heard  only  of  Aintree's 
misconduct,  that  soon  the  War  Department  would 
hear  of  it,  that  Aintree  would  lose  his  commission, 
would  break  the  backbone  of  a  splendid  career. 

"It's  a  friend  talking,"  concluded  Haldane, 
"and  you  know  it!  It's  because  I  am  your  friend 
that  I've  risked  losing  your  friendship!  And, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  it's  the  truth.  You're 
going  down-hill,  going  fast,  going  like  a  motor-bus 
running  away,  and  unless  you  put  on  the  brakes 
you'll  smash!" 

Aintree  was  not  even  annoyed. 

"That's  good  advice  for  the  right  man,"  he 
granted,  "but  why  waste  it  on  me?  I  can  do 
things  other  men  can't.  I  can  stop  drinking  this 
minute,  and  it  will  mean  so  little  to  me  that  I 
won't  know  I've  stopped." 

"Then  stop,"  said  Haldane. 

"Why?"  demanded  Aintree.  "I  like  it.  Why 
should  I  stop  anything  I  like?  Because  a  lot  of 
old  women  are  gossiping?  Because  old  men  who 
can't  drink  green  mint  without  dancing  turkey- 
trots  think  I'm  going  to  the  devil  because  I 

46 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

can  drink  whiskey?  Fm  not  afraid  of  whiskey," 
he  laughed  tolerantly.  "It  amuses  me,  that's  all 
it  does  to  me;  it  amuses  me."  He  pulled  back  the 
coat  of  his  pajamas  and  showed  his  giant  chest 
and  shoulder.  With  his  fist  he  struck  his  bare 
flesh  and  it  glowed  instantly  a  healthy,  splendid 
pink. 

"See  that!"  commanded  Aintree.  "If  there's  a 
man  on  the  isthmus  in  any  better  physical  shape 
than  I  am,  I'll — "  He  interrupted  himself  to  begin 
again  eagerly.  "I'll  make  you  a  sporting  proposi 
tion,"  he  announced.  "I'll  fight  any  man  on  the 
isthmus  ten  rounds — no  matter  who  he  is,  a  wop 
laborer,  shovel  man,  Barbadian  nigger,  marine, 
anybody — and  if  he  can  knock  me  out  I'll  stop 
drinking.  You  see,"  he  explained  patiently,  "I'm 
no  mollycoddle  or  jelly-fish.  I  can  afford  a  head 
ache.  And  besides,  it's  my  own  head.  If  I  don't 
give  anybody  else  a  headache,  I  don't  see  that 
it's  anybody  else's  damned  business." 

"But  you  do,"  retorted  Haldane  steadily. 
"You're  giving  your  own  men  worse  than  a  head 
ache,  you're  setting  them  a  rotten  example,  you're 
giving  the  Thirty-third  a  bad  name " 

Aintree  vaulted  off  his  cot  and  shook  his  fist  at 
his  friend. 

"You  can't  say  that  to  me,"  he  cried. 
47 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"I  do  say  it,"  protested  Haldane.  "When  you 
were  in  Manila  your  men  were  models;  here 
they're  unshaven,  sloppy,  undisciplined.  They 
look  like  bell-hops.  And  it's  your  fault.  And 
everybody  thinks  so." 

Slowly  and  carefully  Aintree  snapped  his  fin 
gers. 

"And  you  can  tell  everybody,  from  me,"  he 
cried,  "that's  all  I  care  what  they  think!  And 
now,"  he  continued,  smiling  hospitably,  "let  me 
congratulate  you  on  your  success  as  a  missionary, 
and,  to  show  you  there's  not  a  trace  of  hard  feel 
ing,  we  will  have  a  drink." 

Informally  Haldane  reported  back  to  the  com 
mission,  and  the  wife  of  one  of  them  must  have 
talked,  for  it  was  soon  known  that  a  brother  officer 
had  appealed  to  Aintree  to  reform,  and  Aintree 
had  refused  to  listen. 

When  she  heard  this,  Grace  Carter,  the  wife  of 
Major  Carter,  one  of  the  surgeons  at  the  Ancon 
Hospital,  was  greatly  perturbed.  Aintree  was  en 
gaged  to  be  married  to  Helen  Scott,  who  was  her 
best  friend  and  who  was  arriving  by  the  next 
steamer  to  spend  the  winter.  When  she  had 
Helen  safely  under  her  roof,  Mrs.  Carter  had 
planned  to  marry  off  the  young  couple  out  of  hand 
on  the  isthmus.  But  she  had  begun  to  wonder  if 

48 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

it  would  not  be  better  they  should  delay,  or  best 
that  they  should  never  marry. 

"The  awakening  is  going  to  be  a  terrible  blow 
to  Helen,"  she  said  to  her  husband.  "She  is  so 
proud  of  him." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  protested,  "it  will  be  the 
awakening  of  Aintree — if  Helen  will  stand  for  the 
way  he's  acting,  she  is  not  the  girl  I  know.  And 
when  he  finds  she  won't,  and  that  he  may  lose  her, 
he'll  pull  up  short.  He's  talked  Helen  to  me  night 
after  night  until  he's  bored  me  so  I  could  strangle 
him.  He  cares  more  for  her  than  he  does  for  any 
thing,  for  the  army,  or  for  himself,  and  that's  say 
ing  a  great  deal.  One  word  from  her  will  be 
enough." 

Helen  spoke  the  word  three  weeks  after  she  ar 
rived.  It  had  not  been  necessary  to  tell  her  of  the 
manner  in  which  her  lover  was  misconducting  him 
self.  At  various  dinners  given  in  their  honor  he 
had  made  a  nuisance  of  himself;  on  another  occa 
sion,  while  in  uniform,  he  had  created  a  scene  in 
the  dining-room  of  the  Tivoli  under  the  prying 
eyes  of  three  hundred  seeing-the-Canal  tourists; 
and  one  night  he  had  so  badly  beaten  up  a  cab 
man  who  had  laughed  at  his  condition  that  the 
man  went  to  the  hospital.  Major  Carter,  largely 
with  money,  had  healed  the  injuries  of  the  cab- 

49 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

man,  but  Helen,  who  had  witnessed  the  assault, 
had  suffered  an  injury  that  money  could  not  heal. 

She  sent  for  Aintree,  and  at  the  home  of  her 
friend  delivered  her  ultimatum. 

"I  hit  him  because  he  was  offensive  to  you" 
said  Aintree.  "  That's  why  I  hit  him.  If  I'd  not 
had  a  drink  in  a  year,  I'd  have  hit  him  just  as 
quick  and  just  as  hard." 

"Can't  you  see,"  said  the  girl,  "that  in  being  not 
yourself  when  I  was  in  your  care  you  were  much 
more  insulting  to  me  than  any  cabman  could  pos 
sibly  be?  When  you  are  like  that  you  have  no 
respect  for  me,  or  for  yourself.  Part  of  my  pride 
in  you  is  that  you  are  so  strong,  that  you  control 
yourself,  that  common  pleasures  never  get  a  hold 
on  you.  If  you  couldn't  control  your  temper  I 
wouldn't  blame  you,  because  you've  a  villainous 
temper  and  you  were  born  with  it.  But  you 
weren't  born  with  a  taste  for  liquor.  None  of 
your  people  drank.  You  never  drank  until  you 
went  into  the  army.  If  I  were  a  man,"  declared 
the  girl,  "I'd  be  ashamed  to  admit  any  thing  was 
stronger  than  I  was.  You  never  let  pain  beat  you. 
I've  seen  you  play  polo  with  a  broken  arm,  but  in 
this  you  give  pain  to  others,  you  shame  and  hu 
miliate  the  one  you  pretend  to  love,  just  because 
you  are  weak,  just  because  you  can't  say  *no.": 

50 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

Aintree  laughed  angrily. 

"Drink  has  no  hold  on  me,"  he  protested.  "It 
affects  me  as  much  as  the  lights  and  the  music 
affect  a  girl  at  her  first  dance,  and  no  more.  But, 
if  you  ask  me  to  stop " 

"I  do  not!"  said  the  girl.  "If  you  stop,  you'll 
stop  not  because  I  have  any  influence  over  you, 
but  because  you  don't  need  my  influence.  If  it's 
wrong,  if  it's  hurting  you,  if  it's  taking  away  your 
usefulness  and  your  power  for  good,  that's  why 
you'll  stop.  Not  because  a  girl  begs  you.  Or 
you're  not  the  man  I  think  you." 

Aintree  retorted  warmly.  "I'm  enough  of  a 
man  for  this,"  he  protested:  "I'm  enough  of  a 
man  not  to  confess  I  can't  drink  without  making 
a  beast  of  myself.  It's  easy  not  to  drink  at  all. 
But  to  stop  altogether  is  a  confession  of  weakness. 
I'd  look  on  my  doing  that  as  cowardly.  I  give  you 
my  word — not  that  I'll  swear  off,  that  I'll  never 
do — but  I  promise  you  you'll  have  no  further  rea 
son  to  be  what  you  call  humiliated,  or  ashamed. 
You  have  my  word  for  it." 

A  week  later  Aintree  rode  his  pony  into  a  rail 
way  cutting  and  rolled  with  it  to  the  tracks  be 
low,  and,  if  at  the  time  he  had  not  been  extremely 
drunk,  would  have  been  killed.  The  pony,  being 
quite  sober,  broke  a  leg  and  was  destroyed. 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

When  word  of  this  came  to  Helen  she  was  too 
sick  at  heart  to  see  Aintree,  and  by  others  it  was 
made  known  to  him  that  on  the  first  steamer  Miss 
Scott  would  return  North.  Aintree  knew  why 
she  was  going,  knew  she  had  lost  faith  and  pa 
tience,  knew  the  woman  he  loved  had  broken  with 
him  and  put  him  out  of  her  life.  Appalled  at  this 
calamity,  he  proceeded  to  get  drunk  in  earnest. 

The  night  was  very  hot  and  the  humidity  very 
heavy,  and  at  Las  Palmas  inside  the  bungalow  that 
served  as  a  police-station  the  lamps  on  either  side 
of  the  lieutenant's  desk  burned  like  tiny  furnaces. 
Between  them,  panting  in  the  moist  heat  and  with 
the  sweat  from  his  forehead  and  hand  dripping 
upon  an  otherwise  immaculate  report,  sat  Stand- 
ish.  Two  weeks  before,  the  chief  had  made  him 
one  of  his  six  lieutenants.  With  the  force  the 
promotion  had  been  most  popular. 

Since  his  promotion  Standish  had  been  in  charge 
of  the  police-station  at  Las  Palmas  and  daily  had 
seen  Aintree  as,  on  his  way  down  the  hill  from 
the  barracks  to  the  railroad,  the  hero  of  Batangas 
passed  the  door  of  the  station-house.  Also,  on  the 
morning  Aintree  had  jumped  his  horse  over  the 
embankment,  Standish  had  seen  him  carried  up 
the  hill  on  a  stretcher.  At  the  sight  the  lieu- 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

tenant  of  police  had  taken  from  his  pocket  a  note 
book,  and  on  a  flyleaf  made  a  cross.  On  the  fly 
leaf  were  many  other  dates  and  opposite  each  a 
cross.  It  was  Aintree's  record  and  as  the  number 
of  black  crosses  grew,  the  greater  had  grown  the 
resentment  of  Standish,  the  more  greatly  it  had 
increased  his  anger  against  the  man  who  had  put 
this  affront  upon  the  army,  the  greater  became 
his  desire  to  punish. 

In  police  circles  the  night  had  been  quiet,  the 
cells  in  the  yard  were  empty,  the  telephone  at  his 
elbow  had  remained  silent,  and  Standish  alone  in 
the  station-house  had  employed  himself  in  cram 
ming  "Moss's  Manual  for  Subalterns."  He  found 
it  a  fascinating  exercise.  The  hope  that  soon  he 
might  himself  be  a  subaltern  always  burned 
brightly,  and  to  be  prepared  seemed  to  make  the 
coming  of  that  day  more  certain.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  and  Las  Palmas  lay  sunk  in  slumber,  and 
after  the  down  train  which  was  now  due  had 
passed,  there  was  nothing  likely  to  disturb  her 
slumber  until  at  sunrise  the  great  army  of  dirt- 
diggers  with  shrieks  of  whistles,  with  roars  of 
dynamite,  with  the  rumbling  of  dirt-trains  and 
steam-shovels,  again  sprang  to  the  attack.  Down 
the  hill,  a  hundred  yards  below  Standish,  the  night 
train  halted  at  the  station,  with  creakings  and 

S3 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

groanings  continued  toward  Colon,  and  again  Las 
Palmas  returned  to  sleep. 

And,  then,  quickly  and  viciously,  like  the  crack 
of  a  mule-whip,  came  the  reports  of  a  pistol;  and 
once  more  the  hot  and  dripping  silence. 

On  post  at  the  railroad  station,  whence  the  shots 
came,  was  Meehan,  one  of  the  Zone  police,  an  ex- 
sergeant  of  marines.  On  top  of  the  hill,  outside 
the  infantry  barracks,  was  another  policeman, 
Bullard,  once  a  cowboy. 

Standish  ran  to  the  veranda  and  heard  the  peb 
bles  scattering  as  Bullard  leaped  down  the  hill,  and 
when,  in  the  light  from  the  open  door,  he  passed, 
the  lieutenant  shouted  at  him  to  find  Meehan 
and  report  back.  Then  the  desk  telephone  rang, 
and  Standish  returned  to  his  chair. 

"This  is  Meehan,"  said  a  voice.  "Those  shots 
just  now  were  fired  by  Major  Aintree.  He  came 
down  on  the  night  train  and  jumped  off  after  the 
train  was  pulling  out  and  stumbled  into  a  negro, 
and  fell.  He's  been  drinking  and  he  swore  the 
nigger  pushed  him;  and  the  man  called  Aintree 
a  liar.  Aintree  pulled  his  gun  and  the  nigger 
ran.  Aintree  fired  twice;  then  I  got  to  him  and 
knocked  the  gun  out  of  his  hand  with  my  night 
stick." 

There  was  a  pause.  Until  he  was  sure  his  voice 
54 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

would  be  steady  and  official,  the  boy  lieutenant 
did  not  speak. 

"Did  he  hit  the  negro?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Meehan  answered.  "The  man 
jumped  for  the  darkest  spot  he  could  find."  The 
voice  of  Meehan  lost  its  professional  calm  and  be 
came  personal  and  aggrieved. 

"Aintree's  on  his  way  to  see  you  now,  lieuten 
ant.  He's  going  to  report  me." 

"For  what?" 

The  voice  over  the  telephone  rose  indignantly •. 

"For  knocking  the  gun  out  of  his  hand.  He 
says  it's  an  assault.  He's  going  to  break  me!" 

Standish  made  no  comment. 

"Report  here,"  he  ordered. 

He  heard  Bullard  hurrying  up  the  hill  and  met 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"There's  a  nigger,"  began  Bullard,  "lying  un 
der  some  bushes " 

"Hush!"  commanded  Standish. 

From  the  path  below  came  the  sound  of  foot 
steps  approaching  unsteadily,  and  the  voice  of  a 
man  swearing  and  muttering  to  himself.  Stand 
ish  pulled  the  ex-cowboy  into  the  shadow  of  the 
darkness  and  spoke  in  eager  whispers. 

"You  understand,"  he  concluded,  "you  will  sot 
report  until  you  see  me  pick  up  a  cigar  from  the 

55 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

desk  and  light  it.  You  will  wait  out  here  in  the 
darkness.  When  you  see  me  light  the  cigar,  you 
will  come  in  and  report." 

The  cowboy  policeman  nodded,  but  without  en 
thusiasm.  "I  understand,  lieutenant,"  he  said, 
"but,"  he  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  "it  sizes  up 
to  me  like  what  those  police  up  in  New  York  call  a 
'  frame-up. "' 

Standish  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"It's  not  my  frame-up!"  he  said.  "The  man's 
framed  himself  up.  All  I'm  going  to  do  is  to  nail 
him  to  the  wall ! " 

Standish  had  only  time  to  return  to  his  desk 
when  Aintree  stumbled  up  the  path  and  into  the 
station-house.  He  was  "fighting  drunk,"  ugly, 
offensive,  all  but  incoherent  with  anger. 

"You  in  charge?"  he  demanded.  He  did  not 
wait  for  an  answer.  "I've  been  'saulted!"  he 
shouted.  "'Saulted  by  one  of  your  damned  police 
men.  He  struck  me — struck  me  when  I  was  pro 
tecting  myself.  He  had  a  nigger  with  him.  First 
the  nigger  tripped  me;  then,  when  I  tried  to  pro 
tect  myself,  this  thug  of  yours  hits  me,  clubs  me, 
you  unnerstan',  clubs  me!  I  want  him " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Meehan, 
who  moved  into  the  light  from  the  lamps  and 
saluted  his  lieutenant. 

56 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"That's  the  man!"  roared  Aintree.  The  sight 
of  Meehan  whipped  him  into  greater  fury. 

"I  want  that  man  broke.  I  want  to  see  you 
strip  his  shield  off  him — now,  you  unnerstan', 
now — for  'saulting  me,  for  'saulting  an  officer  in 
the  United  States  army.  And,  if  you  don't,"  he 
threw  himself  into  a  position  of  the  prize-ring, 
"I'll  beat  him  up  and  you,  too."  Through  want 
of  breath,  he  stopped,  and  panted.  Again  his 
voice  broke  forth  hysterically.  "I'm  not  afraid  of 
your  damned  night-sticks,"  he  taunted.  "I  got 
five  hundred  men  on  top  this  hill,  all  I've  got  to 
do  is  say  the  word,  and  they'll  rough-house  this 
place  and  throw  it  into  the  cut — and  you  with  it." 

Standish  rose  to  his  feet,  and  across  the  desk 
looked  steadily  at  Aintree.  To  Aintree  the  steadi 
ness  of  his  eyes  and  the  quietness  of  his  voice  were 
an  added  aggravation. 

"Suppose  you  did,"  said  Standish,  "that  would 
not  save  you." 

"From  what?"  roared  Aintree.  "Think  I'm 
afraid  of  your  night-sticks?" 

"From  arrest!" 

"Arrest  me!"  yelled  Aintree.  "Do  you  know 
who's  talking  to  you?  Do  you  know  who  I  am? 
I'm  Major  Aintree,  damn  you,  commanding  the 

infantry.  An'  I'm  here  to  charge  that  thug " 

57 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"You  are  here  because  you  are  under  arrest," 
said  Standish.  "You  are  arrested  for  threatening 
the  police,  drunkenness,  and  assaulting  a  citizen 
with  intent  to  kill — "  The  voice  of  the  young 
man  turned  shrill  and  rasping.  "And  if  the  man 
should  die " 

Aintree  burst  into  a  bellow  of  mocking  laughter. 

Standish  struck  the  desk  with  his  open  palm. 

"Silence!"  he  commanded. 

"Silence  to  me!"  roared  Aintree,  "you  imperti 
nent  pup!"  He  flung  himself  forward,  shaking 
his  fist.  "I'm  Major  Aintree.  I'm  your  superior 
officer.  I'm  an  officer  an'  a  gentleman " 

"You  are  not!"  replied  Standish.  "You  are  a 
drunken  loafer!" 

Aintree  could  not  break  the  silence.  Amaze 
ment,  rage,  stupefaction  held  him  in  incredulous 
wonder.  Even  Meehan  moved  uneasily.  Be 
tween  the  officer  commanding  the  infantry  and 
an  officer  of  police,  he  feared  the  lieutenant  would 
not  survive. 

But  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  lieutenant  con 
tinuing,  evenly,  coldly,  like  the  voice  of  a  judge 
delivering  sentence. 

"You  are  a  drunken  loafer,"  repeated  the  boy. 
"And  you  know  it.  And  I  mean  that  to-morrow 
morning  every  one  on  the  Zone  shall  know  it. 

58 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

And  I  mean  to-morrow  night  every  one  in  the 
States  shall  know  it.  You've  killed  a  man,  or 
tried  to,  and  I'm  going  to  break  you."  With  his 
arm  he  pointed  to  Meehan.  "Break  that  man?" 
he  demanded.  "For  doing  his  duty,  for  trying  to 
stop  a  murder?  Strip  him  of  his  shield?"  The 
boy  laughed  savagely.  "It's  you  I  am  going  to 
strip,  Aintree,"  he  cried,  "you  'hero  of  Batangas'; 
Fm  going  to  strip  you  naked.  I'm  going  to  'cut 
the  buttons  off  your  coat,  and  tear  the  stripes 
away.'  I'm  going  to  degrade  you  and  disgrace 
you,  and  drive  you  out  of  the  army!"  He  threw 
his  note-book  on  the  table.  "There's  your  dossier, 
Aintree,"  he  said.  "  For  three  months  you've  been 
drunk,  and  there's  your  record.  The  police  got 
it  for  me;  it's  written  there  with  dates  and  the 
names  of  witnesses.  I'll  swear  to  it.  I've  been 
after  you  to  get  you,  and  I've  got  you.  With 
that  book,  with  what  you  did  to-night,  you'll  leave 
the  army.  You  may  resign,  you  may  be  court- 
martialled,  you  may  be  hung.  I  don't  give  a 
damn  what  they  do  to  you,  but  you  will  leave  the 
army!" 

He  turned  to  Meehan,  and  with  a  jerk  of  the 
hand  signified  Aintree. 

"  Put  him  in  a  cell,"  he  said.     "  If  he  resists " 

Aintree  gave  no  sign  of  resisting.     He  stood  mo- 
59 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

tionless,  his  arms  hanging  limp,  his  eyes  protru 
ding.  The  liquor  had  died  in  him,  and  his  anger 
had  turned  chill.  He  tried  to  moisten  his  lips  to 
speak,  but  his  throat  was  baked,  and  no  sound 
issued.  He  tried  to  focus  his  eyes  upon  the  men 
acing  little  figure  behind  the  desk,  but  between  the 
two  lamps  it  swayed,  and  shrank  and  swelled.  Of 
one  thing  only  was  he  sure,  that  some  grave  dis 
aster  had  overtaken  him,  something  that  when  he 
came  fully  to  his  senses  still  would  overwhelm 
him,  something  he  could  not  conquer  with  his 
fists.  His  brain,  even  befuddled  as  it  was,  told 
him  he  had  been  caught  by  the  heels,  that  he  was 
in  a  trap,  that  smashing  this  boy  who  threatened 
him  could  not  set  him  free.  He  recognized,  and  it 
was  this  knowledge  that  stirred  him  with  alarm, 
that  this  was  no  ordinary  officer  of  justice,  but  a 
personal  enemy,  an  avenging  spirit  who,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  had  spread  a  trap;  who,  for  some 
private  purpose  of  revenge,  would  drag  him  down. 

Frowning  painfully,  he  waved  Meehan  from 
him. 

"Wait,"  he  commanded.  "I  don'  unnerstan'. 
What  good's  it  goin'  to  do  you  to  lock  me  up 
an'  disgrace  me?  What  harm  have  I  done  you? 
Who  asked  you  to  run  the  army,  anyway?  Who 
are  you?" 

60 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"My  name  is  Standish,"  said  the  lieutenant. 
"My  father  was  colonel  of  the  Thirty-third  when 
you  first  joined  it  from  the  Academy." 

Aintree  exclaimed  with  surprise  and  enlighten 
ment.  He  broke  into  hurried  speech,  but  Stand 
ish  cut  him  short. 

"And  General  Standish  of  the  Mexican  War,"  he 
continued,  "was  my  grandfather.  Since  Washing 
ton  all  my  people  have  been  officers  of  the  regular 
army,  and  I'd  been  one,  too,  if  I'd  been  bright 
enough.  That's  why  I  respect  the  army.  That's 
why  I'm  going  to  throw  you  out  of  it.  You've 
done  harm  fifty  men  as  good  as  you  can't  undo. 
You've  made  drunkards  of  a  whole  battalion. 
You've  taught  boys  who  looked  up  to  you,  as  I 
looked  up  to  you  once,  to  laugh  at  discipline,  to 
make  swine  of  themselves.  You've  set  them  an 
example.  I'm  going  to  make  an  example  of  you. 
That's  all  there  is  to  this.  I've  got  no  grudge 
against  you.  I'm  not  vindictive;  I'm  sorry  for 
you.  But,"  he  paused  and  pointed  his  hand  at 
Aintree  as  though  it  held  a  gun,  "you  are  going  to 
leave  the  army!" 

Like  a  man  coming  out  of  an  ugly  dream,  Ain 
tree  opened  and  shut  his  eyes,  shivered,  and 
stretched  his  great  muscles.  They  watched  him 
with  an  effort  of  the  will  force  himself  back  to 

61 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

consciousness.     When  again  he  spoke,  his  tone 
was  sane. 

"See  here,  Standish,"  he  began,  "I'll  not  beg 
of  you  or  any  man.  I  only  ask  you  to  think  what 
you're  doing.  This  means  my  finish.  If  you 
force  this  through  to-night  it  means  court-martial, 
it  means  I  lose  my  commission,  I  lose — lose  things 
you  know  nothing  about.  And,  if  I've  got  a  rec 
ord  for  drinking,  I've  got  a  record  for  other  things, 
too.  Don't  forget  that!" 

Standish  shook  his  head.  "7  didn't  forget  it," 
he  said. 

"Well,  suppose  7  did,"  demanded  Aintree. 
"Suppose  I  did  go  on  the  loose,  just  to  pass  the 
time,  just  because  I'm  sick  of  this  damned  ditch? 
Is  it  fair  to  wipe  out  all  that  went  before,  for  that  ? 
I'm  the  youngest  major  in  the  army,  I  served  in 
three  campaigns,  I'm  a  medal-of-honor  man,  I've 
got  a  career  ahead  of  me,  and — and  I'm  going  to 
be  married.  If  you  give  me  a  chance " 

Standish  struck  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"I  will  give  you  a  chance,"  he  cried.  "If  you'll 
give  your  word  to  this  man  and  to  me,  that,  so  help 
you  God,  you'll  never  drink  again — I'll  let  you  go." 

If  what  Standish  proposed  had  been  something 
base,  Aintree  could  not  have  accepted  it  with  more 
contempt. 

62 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  first,"  he  said. 

As  though  the  interview  was  at  an  end,  Standish 
dropped  into  his  chair  and  leaning  forward,  from 
the  table  picked  up  a  cigar.  As  he  lit  it,  he  mo 
tioned  Meehan  toward  his  prisoner,  but  before  the 
policeman  could  advance  the  sound  of  footsteps 
halted  him. 

Bullard,  his  eyes  filled  with  concern,  leaped  up 
the  steps,  and  ran  to  the  desk. 

"Lieutenant!"  he  stammered,  "that  man — the 
nigger  that  officer  shot — he's  dead!" 

Aintree  gave  a  gasp  that  was  partly  a  groan, 
partly  a  cry  of  protest,  and  Bullard,  as  though  for 
the  first  time  aware  of  his  presence,  sprang  back  to 
the  open  door  and  placed  himself  between  it  and 
Aintree. 

"It's  murder!"  he  said. 

None  of  the  three  men  spoke;  and  when  Meehan 
crossed  to  where  Aintree  stood,  staring  fearfully 
at  nothing,  he  had  only  to  touch  his  sleeve,  and 
Aintree,  still  staring,  fell  into  step  beside  him. 

From  the  yard  outside  Standish  heard  the  iron 
door  of  the  cell  swing  shut,  heard  the  key  grate 
in  the  lock,  and  the  footsteps  of  Meehan  return 
ing. 

Meehan  laid  the  key  upon  the  desk,  and  with 
Bullard  stood  at  attention,  waiting. 

63 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

"Give  him  time,"  whispered  Standish.  "Let  it 
sink  in!" 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Standish  heard  Ain- 
tree  calling,  and,  with  Meehan  carrying  a  lantern, 
stepped  into  the  yard  and  stopped  at  the  cell  door. 

Aintree  was  quite  sober.  His  face  was  set  and 
white,  his  voice  was  dull  with  suffering.  He  stood 
erect,  clasping  the  bars  in  his  hands. 

"Standish,"  he  said,  "you  gave  me  a  chance  a 
while  ago,  and  I  refused  it.  I  was  rough  about  it. 
I'm  sorry.  It  made  me  hot  because  I  thought  you 
were  forcing  my  hand,  blackmailing  me  into  doing 
something  I  ought  to  do  as  a  free  agent.  Now,  I 
am  a  free  agent.  You  couldn't  give  me  a  chance 
now,  you  couldn't  let  me  go  now,  not  if  I  swore  on 
a  thousand  Bibles.  I  don't  know  what  they'll 
give  me — Leavenworth  for  life,  or  hanging,  or  just 
dismissal.  But,  you've  got  what  you  wanted — 
I'm  leaving  the  army!"  Between  the  bars  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  and  held  a  hand  toward 
Meehan  and  Standish.  In  the  same  dull,  numbed 
voice  he  continued. 

"So,  now,"  he  went  on,  "that  I've  nothing  to 
gain  by  it,  I  want  to  swear  to  you  and  to  this  man 
here,  that  whether  I  hang,  or  go  to  jail,  or  am 
turned  loose,  I  will  never,  so  help  me  God,  take 
another  drink." 

64 


The  Miracle  of  Las  Palmas 

Standish  was  holding  the  hand  of  the  man  who 
once  had  been  his  hero.  He  clutched  it  tight. 

"Aintree,"  he  cried,  "suppose  I  could  work  a 
miracle;  suppose  I've  played  a  trick  on  you,  to 
show  you  your  danger,  to  show  you  what  might 
come  to  you  any  day — does  that  oath  still  stand?" 

The  hand  that  held  his  ground  the  bones  to 
gether. 

"  I've  given  my  word ! "  cried  Aintree.  "  For  the 
love  of  God,  don't  torture  me.  Is  the  man  alive  ? " 

As  Standish  swung  open  the  cell  door,  the  hero 
of  Batangas,  he  who  could  thrash  any  man  on  the 
Isthmus,  crumpled  up  like  a  child  upon  his 
shoulder. 

And  Meehan,  as  he  ran  for  water,  shouted  joy 
fully. 

"That  nigger,"  he  called  to  Bullard,  "can  go 
home  now.  The  lieutenant  don't  want  him  no 
more." 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL 
THINKS 


EVIL  TO  HIM  WHO  EVIL  THINKS 

A>  a  rule,  the  instant  the  season  closed  Aline 
Proctor  sailed  on  the  first  steamer  for  Lon 
don,  where  awaited  her  many  friends,  both  Eng 
lish  and  American — and  to  Paris,  where  she  se 
lected  those  gowns  that  on  and  off  the  stage 
helped  to  make  her  famous.  But  this  particular 
summer  she  had  spent  with  the  Endicotts  at 
Bar  Harbor,  and  it  was  at  their  house  Herbert 
Nelson  met  her.  After  Herbert  met  her  very  few 
other  men  enjoyed  that  privilege.  This  was  her 
wish  as  well  as  his. 

They  behaved  disgracefully.  Every  morning 
after  breakfast  they  disappeared  and  spent  the 
day  at  opposite  ends  of  a  canoe.  She,  knowing 
nothing  of  a  canoe,  was  happy  in  stabbing  the 
waters  with  her  paddle  while  he  told  her  how 
he  loved  her  and  at  the  same  time,  with  anxious 
eyes  on  his  own  paddle,  skilfully  frustrated  her 
efforts  to  drown  them  both.  While  the  affair 
lasted  it  was  ideal  and  beautiful,  but  unfortu 
nately  it  lasted  only  two  months. 

69 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

Then  Lord  Albany,  temporarily  in  America  as 
honorary  attache  to  the  British  embassy,  his  ador 
ing  glances,  his  accent,  and  the  way  he  brushed  his 
hair,  proved  too  much  for  the  susceptible  heart  of 
Aline,  and  she  chucked  Herbert  and  asked  herself 
how  a  woman  of  her  age  could  have  seriously  con 
sidered  marrying  a  youth  just  out  of  Harvard !  At 
that  time  she  was  a  woman  of  nineteen;  but,  as  she 
had  been  before  the  public  ever  since  she  was 
eleven,  the  women  declared  she  was  not  a  day  un 
der  twenty-six;  and  the  men  knew  she  could  not 
possibly  be  over  sixteen! 

Aline's  own  idea  of  herself  was  that  without 
some  one  in  love  with  her  she  could  not  exist — 
that,  unless  she  knew  some  man  cared  for  her  and 
for  her  alone,  she  would  wither  and  die.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  whether  any  one  loved  her  or  not 
did  not  in  the  least  interest  her.  There  were  sev 
eral  dozen  men  who  could  testify  to  that.  They 
knew!  What  she  really  wanted  was  to  be  head 
over  ears  in  love — to  adore  some  one,  to  worship 
him,  to  imagine  herself  starving  for  him  and  mak 
ing  sacrifice  hits  for  him;  but  when  the  moment 
came  to  make  the  sacrifice  hit  and  marry  the  man, 
she  invariably  found  that  a  greater,  truer  love  had 
arisen — for  some  one  else. 

This  greater  and  truer  love  always  made  her 
70 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

behave  abominably  to  the  youth  she  had  just 
jilted.  She  wasted  no  time  on  post-mortems.  She 
was  so  eager  to  show  her  absolute  loyalty  to  the 
new  monarch  that  she  grudged  every  thought  she 
ever  had  given  the  one  she  had  cast  into  exile. 
She  resented  him  bitterly.  She  could  not  forgive 
him  for  having  allowed  her  to  be  desperately  in 
love  with  him.  He  should  have  known  he  was 
not  worthy  of  such  a  love  as  hers.  He  should  have 
known  that  the  real  prince  was  waiting  only  just 
round  the  corner. 

As  a  rule,  the  rejected  ones  behaved  well.  Each 
decided  Aline  was  much  too  wonderful  a  creature 
for  him,  and  continued  to  love  her  cautiously  and 
from  a  distance.  None  of  them  ever  spoke  or 
thought  ill  of  her  and  would  gladly  have  punched 
any  one  who  did.  It  was  only  the  women  whose 
young  men  Aline  had  temporarily  confiscated,  and 
then  returned  saddened  and  chastened,  who  were 
spiteful.  And  they  dared  say  no  more  than  that 
Aline  would  probably  have  known  her  mind  better 
if  she  had  had  a  mother  to  look  after  her.  This, 
coming  to  the  ears  of  Aline,  caused  her  to  reply 
that  a  girl  who  could  not  keep  straight  herself,  but 
needed  a  mother  to  help  her,  would  not  keep 
straight  had  she  a  dozen  mothers.  As  she  put  it 
cheerfully,  a  girl  who  goes  wrong  and  then  pleads 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

"no  mother  to  guide  her"  is  like  a  jockey  who 
pulls  a  race  and  then  blames  the  horse. 

Each  of  the  yoking  men  Aline  rejected  married 
some  one  else  and,  except  when  the  name  of  Aline 
Proctor  in  the  theatrical  advertisements  or  in  elec 
tric  lights  on  Broadway  gave  him  a  start,  forgot 
that  for  a  month  her  name  and  his  own  had  been 
linked  together  from  Portland  to  San  Francisco. 
But  the  girl  he  married  did  not  forget.  She  never 
understood  what  the  public  saw  in  Aline  Proctor. 
That  Aline  was  the  queen  of  musical  comedy  she 
attributed  to  the  fact  that  Aline  knew  the  right 
people  and  got  herself  written  about  in  the  right 
way.  But  that  she  could  sing,  dance,  act;  that 
she  possessed  compelling  charm;  that  she  "got 
across"  not  only  to  the  tired  business  man,  the 
wine  agent,  the  college  boy,  but  also  to  the 
children  and  the  old  ladies,  was  to  her  never 
apparent. 

Just  as  Aline  could  not  forgive  the  rejected  suitor 
for  allowing  her  to  love  him,  so  the  girl  he  married 
never  forgave  Aline  for  having  loved  her  husband. 
Least  of  all  could  Sally  Winthrop,  who  two  years 
after  the  summer  at  Bar  Harbor  married  Herbert 
Nelson,  forgive  her.  And  she  let  Herbert  know  it. 
Herbert  was  properly  in  love  with  Sally  Winthrop, 
but  he  liked  to  think  that  his  engagement  to  Aline, 

72 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

though  brief  and  abruptly  terminated,  had  proved 
him  to  be  a  man  fatally  attractive  to  all  women. 
And  though  he  was  hypnotizing  himself  into  be 
lieving  that  his  feeling  for  Aline  had  been  the  grand 
passion,  the  truth  was  that  all  that  kept  her  in 
his  thoughts  was  his  own  vanity.  He  was  not 
discontented  with  his  lot — his  lot  being  Sally  Win- 
throp,  her  millions,  and  her  estate  of  three  hun 
dred  acres  near  Westbury.  Nor  was  he  still  long 
ing  for  Aline.  It  was  only  that  his  vanity  was 
flattered  by  the  recollection  that  one  of  the  young 
women  most  beloved  by  the  public  had  once  loved 
him. 

"I  once  was  a  king  in  Babylon,"  he  used  to 
misquote  to  himself,  "and  she  was  a  Christian 
slave." 

He  was  as  young  as  that. 

Had  he  been  content  in  secret  to  assure  himself 
that  he  once  had  been  a  reigning  monarch,  his 
vanity  would  have  harmed  no  one;  but,  unfortu 
nately,  he  possessed  certain  documentary  evidence 
to  that  fact.  And  he  was  sufficiently  foolish  not  to 
wish  to  destroy  it.  The  evidence  consisted  of  a 
dozen  photographs  he  had  snapped  of  Aline  during 
the  happy  days  at  Bar  Harbor,  and  on  which  she 
had  written  phrases  somewhat  exuberant  and  sen 
timental. 

73 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

From  these  photographs  Nelson  was  loath  to 
part — especially  with  one  that  showed  Aline  seated 
on  a  rock  that  ran  into  the  waters  of  the  harbor, 
and  on  which  she  had  written:  "As  long  as  this 
rock  lasts!"  Each  time  she  was  in  love  Aline 
believed  it  would  last.  That  in  the  past  it  never 
had  lasted  did  not  discourage  her. 

What  to  do  with  these  photographs  that  so 
vividly  recalled  the  most  tumultuous  period  of  his 
life  Nelson  could  not  decide.  If  he  hid  them 
away  and  Sally  found  them,  he  knew  she  would 
make  his  life  miserable.  If  he  died  and  Sally  then 
found  them,  when  he  no  longer  was  able  to  explain 
that  they  meant  nothing  to  him,  she  would  believe 
he  always  had  loved  the  other  woman,  and  it  would 
make  her  miserable.  He  felt  he  could  not  safely 
keep  them  in  his  own  house;  his  vanity  did  not 
permit  him  to  burn  them,  and,  accordingly,  he  de 
cided  to  unload  them  on  some  one  else. 

The  young  man  to  whom  he  confided  his  collec 
tion  was  Charles  Cochran.  Cochran  was  a  charm 
ing  person  from  the  West.  He  had  studied  in  the 
Beaux  Arts  and  on  foot  had  travelled  over  England 
and  Europe,  preparing  himself  to  try  his  fortune  in 
New  York  as  an  architect.  He  was  now  in  the 
office  of  the  architects  Post  &  Constant,  and  lived 
alone  in  a  tiny  farmhouse  he  had  made  over  for 

74 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

himself  near  Herbert  Nelson,  at  Westbury,  Long 
Island. 

Post  &  Constant  were  a  fashionable  firm  and 
were  responsible  for  many  of  the  French  chateaus 
and  English  country  houses  that  were  rising  near 
Westbury,  Hempstead,  and  Roslyn;  and  it  was 
Cochran's  duty  to  drive  over  that  territory  in  his 
runabout,  keep  an  eye  on  the  contractors,  and  dis 
suade  clients  from  grafting  mansard  roofs  on 
Italian  villas.  He  had  built  the  summer  home 
of  the  Herbert  Nelsons,  and  Herbert  and  Charles 
were  very  warm  friends.  Charles  was  of  the  same 
lack  of  years  as  was  Herbert,  of  an  enthusiastic 
and  sentimental  nature;  and,  like  many  other 
young  men,  the  story  of  his  life  also  was  the  lovely 
and  much-desired  Aline  Proctor.  It  was  this  coin 
cidence  that  had  made  them  friends  and  that  had 
led  Herbert  to  select  Charles  as  the  custodian  of 
his  treasure.  As  a  custodian  and  confidant  Charles 
especially  appealed  to  his  new  friend  because,  ex 
cept  upon  the  stage  and  in  restaurants,  Charles 
had  never  seen  Aline  Proctor,  did  not  know  her — 
and  considered  her  so  far  above  him,  so  unattain 
able,  that  he  had  no  wish  to  seek  her  out.  Un 
known,  he  preferred  to  worship  at  a  distance.  In 
this  determination  Herbert  strongly  encouraged 
him. 

75 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

When  he  turned  over  the  pictures  to  Charles, 
Herbert  could  not  resist  showing  them  to  him. 
They  were  in  many  ways  charming.  They  pre 
sented  the  queen  of  musical  comedy  in  several 
new  roles.  In  one  she  was  in  a  sailor  suit,  giving 
an  imitation  of  a  girl  paddling  a  canoe.  In  another 
she  was  in  a  riding-habit  mounted  upon  a  pony 
of  which  she  seemed  very  much  afraid.  In  some 
she  sat  like  a  siren  among  the  rocks  with  the  waves 
and  seaweed  snatching  at  her  feet,  and  in  another 
she  crouched  beneath  the  wheel  of  Herbert's  tour 
ing  car.  All  of  the  photographs  were  unprofes 
sional  and  intimate,  and  the  legends  scrawled 
across  them  were  even  more  intimate. 

"As  long  as  this  rock  lasts!'"  read  Herbert. 
At  arm's  length  he  held  the  picture  for  Cochran  to 
see,  and  laughed  bitterly  and  unmirthfully  as  he 
had  heard  leading  men  laugh  in  problem  plays. 

"That  is  what  she  wrote,"  he  mocked — "but 
how  long  did  it  last?  Until  she  saw  that  little  red 
headed  Albany  playing  polo.  That  lasted  until 
his  mother  heard  of  it.  She  thought  her  precious 
lamb  was  in  the  clutches  of  a  designing  actress, 
and  made  the  Foreign  Office  cable  him  home. 
Then  Aline  took  up  one  of  those  army  aviators, 
and  chucked  him  for  that  fellow  who  painted  her 
portrait,  and  threw  him  over  for  the  lawn-tennis 

76 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

champion.  Now  she's  engaged  to  Chester  Gris- 
wold,  and  Heaven  pity  her!  Of  course  he's  the 
greatest  catch  in  America;  but  he's  a  prig  and  a 
snob,  and  he's  so  generous  with  his  money  that 
he'll  give  you  five  pennies  for  a  nickel  any  time 
you  ask  him.  He's  got  a  heart  like  the  meter  of  a 
taxicab,  and  he's  jealous  as  a  cat.  Aline  will  have 
a  fine  time  with  Chester!  I  knew  him  at  St. 
Paul's  and  at  Harvard,  and  he's  got  as  much  red 
blood  in  him  as  an  eel!" 

Cochran  sprang  to  the  defence  of  the  lady  of  his 
dreams. 

"There  must  be  some  good  in  the  man,"  he  pro 
tested,  "or  Miss  Proctor— 

"Oh,  those  solemn  snobs,"  declared  Herbert, 
"impress  women  by  just  keeping  still.  Griswold 
pretends  the  reason  he  doesn't  speak  to  you  is  be 
cause  he's  too  superior,  but  the  real  reason  is  that 
he  knows  whenever  he  opens  his  mouth  he  shows 
he  is  an  ass." 

Reluctantly  Herbert  turned  over  to  Charles  the 
precious  pictures.  "It  would  be  a  sin  to  destroy 
them,  wouldn't  it?"  he  prompted. 

Cochran  agreed  heartily. 

"You  might  even,"  suggested  Herbert,  "leave 
one  or  two  of  them  about.  You  have  so  many  of 
Aline  already  that  one  more  wouldn't  be  noticed. 

77 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

Then  when  I  drop  in  I  could  see  it."  He  smiled 
ingratiatingly. 

"But  those  I  have  I  bought,"  Cochran  pointed 
out.  "Anybody  can  buy  them,  but  yours  are  per 
sonal.  And  they're  signed." 

"No  one  will  notice  that  but  me,"  protested 
Herbert.  "Just  one  or  two,"  he  coaxed — "stuck 
round  among  the  others.  They'd  give  me  a  heap 
of  melancholy  pleasure." 

Charles  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"Your  wife  often  comes  here  with  you,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  believe  they'd  give  her  melancholy  pleas 
ure.  The  question  is,  are  you  married  to  Sally  or 
to  Aline  Proctor?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  exclaimed  Herbert — "if  you 
refuse!" 

With  suspicious  haste  Charles  surrendered. 

"I  don't  refuse,"  he  explained;  "I  only  ask  if  it's 
wise.  Sally  knows  you  were  once  very  fond  of 
Miss  Proctor — knows  you  were  engaged  to  her." 

"But,"  protested  Herbert,  "Sally  sees  your 
photographs  of  Aline.  What  difference  can  a  few 
more  make?  After  she's  seen  a  dozen  she  gets 
used  to  them." 

No  sooner  had  Herbert  left  him  than  the  cus 
todian  of  the  treasure  himself  selected  the  photo 
graphs  he  would  display.  In  them  the  young 

78 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

woman  he  had — from  the  front  row  of  the  orches 
tra — so  ardently  admired  appeared  in  a  new  light. 
To  Cochran  they  seemed  at  once  to  render  her 
more  kindly,  more  approachable;  to  show  her  as 
she  really  was,  the  sort  of  girl  any  youth  would 
find  it  extremely  difficult  not  to  love.  Cochran 
found  it  extremely  easy.  The  photographs  gave 
his  imagination  all  the  room  it  wanted.  He  be 
lieved  they  also  gave  him  an  insight  into  her  real 
character  that  was  denied  to  anybody  else.  He 
had  always  credited  her  with  all  the  virtues;  he 
now  endowed  her  with  every  charm  of  mind  and 
body.  In  a  week  to  the  two  photographs  he  had 
selected  from  the  loan  collection  for  purposes  of 
display  and  to  give  Herbert  melancholy  pleasure 
he  had  added  three  more.  In  two  weeks  there  were 
half  a  dozen.  In  a  month,  nobly  framed  in  silver, 
in  leather  of  red,  green,  and  blue,  the  entire  collec 
tion  smiled  upon  him  from  every  part  of  his  bed 
room.  For  he  now  kept  them  where  no  one  but 
himself  could  see  them.  No  longer  was  he  of  a 
mind  to  share  his  borrowed  treasure  with  others — 
not  even  with  the  rightful  owner. 

Chester  Griswold,  spurred  on  by  Aline  Proctor, 
who  wanted  to  build  a  summer  home  on  Long 
Island,  was  motoring  with  Post,  of  Post  &  Con 
stant,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Westbury.  Post  had 

79 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

pointed  out  several  houses  designed  by  his  firm, 
which  he  hoped  might  assist  Griswold  in  making 
up  his  mind  as  to  the  kind  of  house  he  wanted; 
but  none  they  had  seen  had  satisfied  his  client. 

"What  I  want  is  a  cheap  house,"  explained  the 
young  millionaire.  "I  don't  really  want  a  house 
at  all,"  he  complained.  "It's  Miss  Proctor's  idea. 
When  we  are  married  I  intend  to  move  into  my 
mother's  town  house,  but  Miss  Proctor  wants  one 
for  herself  in  the  country.  I've  agreed  to  that; 
but  it  must  be  small  and  it  must  be  cheap." 

"Cheap"  was  a  word  that  the  clients  of  Post  & 
Constant  never  used;  but  Post  knew  the  weak 
nesses  of  some  of  the  truly  rich,  and  he  knew  also 
that  no  house  ever  built  cost  only  what  the  archi 
tect  said  it  would  cost. 

"I  know  the  very  house  you  want!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "One  of  our  young  men  owns  it.  He 
made  it  over  from  an  old  farmhouse.  It's  very 
well  arranged;  we've  used  his  ground-plan  several 
times  and  it  works  out  splendidly.  If  he's  not  at 
home,  I'll  show  you  over  the  place  myself.  And  if 
you  like  the  house  he's  the  man  to  build  you  one." 

When  they  reached  Cochran's  home  he  was  at 
Garden  City  playing  golf,  but  the  servant  knew 
Mr.  Post,  and  to  him  and  his  client  threw  open 
every  room  in  the  house. 

80 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

"Now,  this,"  exclaimed  the  architect  enthusi 
astically,  "is  the  master's  bedroom.  In  your  case 
it  would  probably  be  your  wife's  room  and  you 
would  occupy  the  one  adjoining,  which  Cochran 
now  uses  as  a  guest-room.  As  you  see,  they  are 
entirely  cut  off  from " 

Mr.  Griswold  did  not  see.  Up  to  that  moment 
he  had  given  every  appearance  of  being  both  bored 
and  sulky.  Now  his  attention  was  entirely  en 
gaged — but  not  upon  the  admirable  simplicity  of 
Mr.  Cochran's  ground-plan,  as  Mr.  Post  had 
hoped.  Instead,  the  eyes  of  the  greatest  catch  in 
America  were  intently  regarding  a  display  of  pho 
tographs  that  smiled  back  at  him  from  every  cor 
ner  of  the  room.  Not  only  did  he  regard  these 
photographs  with  a  savage  glare,  but  he  ap 
proached  them  and  carefully  studied  the  inscrip 
tions  scrawled  across  the  face  of  each. 

Post  himself  cast  a  glance  at  the  nearest  photo 
graphs,  and  then  hastily  manoeuvred  his  client 
into  the  hall  and  closed  the  door. 

"We  will  now,"  he  exclaimed,  "visit  the  butler's 
pantry,  which  opens  upon  the  dining-room  and 
kitchen,  thus  saving — 

But  Griswold  did  not  hear  him.  Without  giving 
another  glance  at  the  house  he  stamped  out  of  it 
and,  plumping  himself  down  in  the  motor-car, 

81 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

banged  the  door.     Not  until  Post  had  driven  him 
well  into  New  York  did  he  make  any  comment. 

"What  did  you  say,"  he  then  demanded,  "is  the 
name  of  the  man  who  owns  that  last  house  we 
saw?" 

Post  told  him. 

"I  never  heard  of  him!"  said  Griswold  as 
though  he  were  delivering  young  Cochran's  death 
sentence.  "Who  is  he?" 

"He's  an  architect  in  our  office,"  said  Post. 
"We  think  a  lot  of  him.  He'll  leave  us  soon  of 
course.  The  best  ones  always  do.  His  work  is 
very  popular.  So  is  he." 

"I  never  heard  of  him,"  repeated  Griswold. 
Then,  with  sudden  heat,  he  added  savagely:  "But 
I  mean  to  to-night." 

When  Griswold  had  first  persuaded  Aline  Proc 
tor  to  engage  herself  to  him  he  had  suggested  that, 
to  avoid  embarrassment,  she  should  tell  him  the 
names  of  the  other  men  to  whom  she  had  been 
engaged. 

"What  kind  of  embarrassment  would  that 
avoid?" 

"If  I  am  talking  to  a  man,"  said  Griswold, 
"and  he  knows  the  woman  I'm  going  to  marry 
was  engaged  to  him  and  I  don't  know  that,  he  has 
me  at  a  disadvantage." 

82 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

"I  don't  see  that  he  has,"  said  Aline.  "If  we 
suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  to  marry 
me  is  desirable,  I  would  say  that  the  man  who 
was  going  to  marry  me  had  the  advantage  over 
the  one  I  had  declined  to  marry." 

"I  want  to  know  who  those  men  are,"  ex 
plained  Griswold,  "because  I  want  to  avoid  them. 
I  don't  want  to  talk  to  them.  I  don't  want  even 
to  know  them." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  you,"  said  Aline. 
"I  haven't  the  slightest  objection  to  telling  you 
the  names  of  the  men  I  have  cared  for,  if  I  can 
remember  them,  but  I  certainly  do  not  intend  to 
tell  you  the  name  of  any  man  who  cared  for  me 
enough  to  ask  me  to  marry  him.  That's  his 
secret,  not  mine — certainly  not  yours." 

Griswold  thought  he  was  very  proud.  He  really 
was  very  vain;  and  as  jealousy  is  only  vanity  in  its 
nastiest  development  he  was  extremely  jealous. 
So  he  persisted. 

"Will  you  do  this?"  he  demanded.  "If  I  ever 
ask  you,  'Is  that  one  of  the  men  you  cared  for?' 
will  you  tell  me  ? " 

"If  you  wish  it,"  said  Aline;  "but  I  can't  see 
any  health  in  it.  It  will  only  make  you  uncom 
fortable.  So  long  as  you  know  I  have  given 
you  the  greatest  and  truest  love  I  am  capable 

83 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

of,  why  should  you  concern  yourself  with  my 
mistakes?" 

"So  that  I  can  avoid  meeting  what  you  call  your 
mistakes,"  said  Griswold — "and  being  friendly 
with  them." 

"I  assure  you,"  laughed  Aline,  "it  wouldn't  hurt 
you  a  bit  to  be  as  friendly  with  them  as  they'd  let 
you.  Maybe  they  weren't  as  proud  of  their  fam 
ilies  as  you  are,  but  they  made  up  for  that  by 
being  a  darned  sight  prouder  of  me!" 

Later,  undismayed  by  this  and'  unashamed,  on 
two  occasions  Griswold  actually  did  demand  of 
Aline  if  a  genial  youth  she  had  just  greeted  joy 
fully  was  one  of  those  for  whom  she  once  had 
cared. 

And  Aline  had  replied  promptly  and  truthfully 
that  he  was.  But  in  the  case  of  Charles  Coch- 
ran,  Griswold  did  not  ask  Aline  if  he  was  one  of 
those  for  whom  she  once  had  cared.  He  consid 
ered  the  affair  with  Cochran  so  serious  that,  in 
regard  to  that  man,  he  adopted  a  different 
course. 

In  digging  rivals  out  of  the  past  his  jealousy  had 
made  him  indefatigable,  but  in  all  his  researches 
he  never  had  heard  the  name  of  Charles  Cochran. 
That  fact  and  the  added  circumstance  that  Aline 
herself  never  had  mentioned  the  man  was  in  his 

84 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

eyes  so  suspicious  as  to  be  almost  a  damning  evi 
dence  of  deception.  And  he  argued  that  if  in 
the  past  Aline  had  deceived  him  as  to  Charles 
Cochran  she  would  continue  to  do  so.  Accord 
ingly,  instead  of  asking  her  frankly  for  the  truth  he 
proceeded  to  lay  traps  for  it.  And  if  there  is  one 
thing  Truth  cannot  abide,  it  is  being  hunted  by 
traps. 

That  evening  Aline  and  he  were  invited  to  a 
supper  in  her  honor,  and  as  he  drove  her  from  the 
theatre  to  the  home  of  their  hostess  he  told  her  of 
his  search  earlier  in  the  day. 

The  electric  light  in  the  limousine  showed  Aline's 
face  as  clearly  as  though  it  were  held  in  a  spotlight, 
and  as  he  prepared  his  trap  Griswold  regarded  her 
jealously. 

"Post  tells  me,"  he  said,  "he  has  the  very  man 
you  want  for  your  architect.  He's  sure  you'll  find 
him  most  understanding  and — and — sympathetic. 
He's  a  young  man  who  is  just  coming  to  the  front, 
and  he's  very  popular,  especially  with  women." 

"What's  his  being  popular  with  women,"  asked 
Aline,  "got  to  do  with  his  carrying  out  my  ideas 
of  a  house?" 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Griswold — "it's  the 
woman  who  generally  has  the  most  to  say  as  to 
how  her  house  shall  be  built,  and  this  man  under- 

85 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

stands  woman.  I  have  reasons  for  believing  he 
will  certainly  understand  you!" 

"If  he  understands  me  well  enough  to  give  me  all 
the  linen-closets  I  want,"  said  Aline,  "he  will  be 
perfectly  satisfactory." 

Before  delivering  his  blow  Griswold  sank  back 
into  his  corner  of  the  car,  drew  his  hat  brim  over 
his  forehead,  and  fixed  spying  eyes  upon  the  very 
lovely  face  of  the  girl  he  had  asked  to  marry  him. 

"His  name,"  he  said  in  fateful  tones,  "is  Charles 
Cochran!" 

It  was  supposed  to  be  a  body  blow;  but,  to  his 
distress,  Aline  neither  started  nor  turned  pale. 
Neither,  for  trying  to  trick  her,  did  she  turn  upon 
him  in  reproof  and  anger.  Instead,  with  alert 
eyes,  she  continued  to  peer  out  of  the  window  at 
the  electric-light  advertisements  and  her  beloved 
Broadway. 

"Well?"  demanded  Griswold;  his  tone  was 
hoarse  and  heavy  with  meaning. 

"Well  what?"  asked  Aline  pleasantly. 

"How,"  demanded  Griswold,  "do  you  like 
Charles  Cochran  for  an  architect?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  asked  Aline.  "I've  not 
met  him  yet!" 

She  had  said  it!  And  she  had  said  it  without 
the  waver  of  one  of  her  lovely  eyelashes.  No  won- 

86 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

der  the  public  already  hailed  her  as  a  finished  ac 
tress!  Griswold  felt  that  his  worst  fears  were  jus 
tified.  She  had  lied  to  him.  And,  as  he  knew  she 
had  never  before  lied  to  him,  that  now  she  did  so 
proved  beyond  hope  of  doubt  that  the  reason  for  it 
was  vital,  imperative,  and  compelling.  But  of  his 
suspicions  Griswold  gave  no  sign.  He  would  not 
at  once  expose  her.  He  had  trapped  her,  but  as 
yet  she  must  not  know  that.  He  would  wait  until 
he  had  still  further  entangled  her — until  she  could 
not  escape;  and  then,  with  complete  proof  of  her 
deceit,  he  would  confront  and  overwhelm  her. 

With  this  amiable  purpose  in  mind  he  called 
early  the  next  morning  upon  Post  &  Constant  and 
asked  to  see  Mr.  Cochran.  He  wished,  he  said,  to 
consult  him  about  the  new  house.  Post  had  not 
yet  reached  the  office,  and  of  Griswold's  visit  with 
Post  to  his  house  Cochran  was  still  ignorant.  He 
received  Griswold  most  courteously.  He  felt  that 
the  man  who  was  loved  by  the  girl  he  also  had  long 
and  hopelessly  worshipped  was  deserving  of  the 
highest  consideration.  Griswold  was  less  mag 
nanimous.  When  he  found  his  rival — for  as  such 
he  beheld  him — was  of  charming  manners  and  gal 
lant  appearance  he  considered  that  fact  an  addi 
tional  injury;  but  he  concealed  his  resentment, 
for  he  was  going  to  trap  Cochran,  too. 

87 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

He  found  the  architect  at  work  leaning  over  a 
drawing-board,  and  as  they  talked  Cochran  con 
tinued  to  stand.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  which 
were  rolled  to  his  shoulders;  and  the  breadth  of 
those  shoulders  and  the  muscles  of  his  sunburned 
arms  were  much  in  evidence.  Griswold  considered 
it  a  vulgar  exhibition. 

For  over  ten  minutes  they  talked  solely  of  the 
proposed  house,  but  not  once  did  Griswold  expose 
the  fact  that  he  had  seen  any  more  of  it  than  any 
one  might  see  from  the  public  road.  When  he 
rose  to  take  his  leave  he  said : 

"How  would  it  do  if  I  motored  out  Sunday  and 
showed  your  house  to  Miss  Proctor?  Sunday  is 
the  only  day  she  has  off,  and  if  it  would  not  incon 
venience  you " 

The  tender  heart  of  Cochran  leaped  in  wild  tu 
mult;  he  could  not  conceal  his  delight,  nor  did  he 
attempt  to  do  so;  and  his  expression  made  it  en 
tirely  unnecessary  for  him  to  assure  Griswold  that 
such  a  visit  would  be  entirely  welcome  and  that 
they  might  count  on  finding  him  at  home.  As 
though  it  were  an  afterthought  Griswold  halted  at 
the  door  and  said: 

"I  believe  you  are  already  acquainted  with  Miss 
Proctor." 

Cochran,  conscious  of  five  years  of  devotion, 
88 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

found  that  he  was  blushing,  and  longed  to  strangle 
himself.  Nor  was  the  blush  lost  upon  Griswold. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Cochran,  "but  I've  not  had 
that  honor.  On  the  stage,  of  course " 

He  shrugged  the  broad  shoulders  deprecatingly, 
as  though  to  suggest  that  not  to  know  Miss  Proc 
tor  as  an  artist  argued  oneself  unknown. 

Griswold  pretended  to  be  puzzled.  As  though 
endeavoring  to  recall  a  past  conversation  he 
frowned. 

"But  Aline,"  he  said,  "told  me  she  had  met  you 
— met  you  at  Bar  Harbor."  In  the  fatal  photo 
graphs  the  familiar  landfalls  of  Bar  Harbor  had 
been  easily  recognized. 

The  young  architect  shook  his  head. 

"It  must  be  another  Cochran,"  he  suggested. 
"I  have  never  been  in  Bar  Harbor." 

With  the  evidence  of  the  photographs  before 
him  this  last  statement  was  a  verdict  of  guilty, 
and  Griswold,  not  with  the  idea  of  giving  Cochran 
a  last  chance  to  be  honest,  but  to  cause  him  to  dig 
the  pit  still  deeper,  continued  to  lead  him  on. 
"Maybe  she  meant  York  Harbor?" 

Again  Cochran  shook  his  head  and  laughed. 

"Believe  me,"  he  said,  "if  I'd  ever  met  Miss 
Proctor  anywhere  I  wouldn't  forget  it!" 

Ten  minutes  later  Griswold  was  talking  to  Aline 
89 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

over  the  telephone.  He  intended  to  force  mat 
ters.  He  would  show  Aline  she  could  neither  trifle 
with  nor  deceive  Chester  Griswold;  but  the  thought 
that  he  had  been  deceived  was  not  what  most  hurt 
him.  What  hurt  him  was  to  think  that  Aline  had 
preferred  a  man  who  looked  like  an  advertise 
ment  for  ready-made  clothes  and  who  worked  in 
his  shirt-sleeves. 

Griswold  took  it  for  granted  that  any  woman 
would  be  glad  to  marry  him.  So  many  had  been 
willing  to  do  so  that  he  was  convinced,  when  one 
of  them  was  not,  it  was  not  because  there  was  any 
thing  wrong  with  him,  but  because  the  girl  herself 
lacked  taste  and  perception. 

That  the  others  had  been  in  any  degree  moved 
by  his  many  millions  had  never  suggested  itself. 
He  was  convinced  each  had  loved  him  for  himself 
alone;  and  if  Aline,  after  meeting  him,  would  still 
consider  any  one  else,  it  was  evident  something 
was  very  wrong  with  Aline.  He  was  determined 
that  she  must  be  chastened — must  be  brought  to 
a  proper  appreciation  of  her  good  fortune  and  of 
his  condescension. 

On  being  called  to  the  telephone  at  ten  in  the 
morning,  Aline  demanded  to  know  what  could 
excuse  Griswold  for  rousing  her  in  the  middle  of 
the  night! 

90 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

Griswold  replied  that,  though  the  day  was 
young,  it  also  was  charming;  that  on  Sunday  there 
might  be  rain;  and  that  if  she  desired  to  see  the 
house  he  and  Post  thought  would  most  suit  her,  he 
and  his  car  would  be  delighted  to  convey  her  to  it. 
They  could  make  the  run  in  an  hour,  lunch  with 
friends  at  Westbury,  and  return  in  plenty  of  time 
for  the  theatre.  Aline  was  delighted  at  the  sud 
den  interest  Griswold  was  showing  in  the  new 
house.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  walked 
into  the  trap.  She  would  go,  she  declared,  with 
pleasure.  In  an  hour  he  should  call  for  her. 

Exactly  an  hour  later  Post  arrived  at  his  office. 
He  went  directly  to  Cochran. 

"Charles,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  I  got  you  into 
trouble  yesterday.  I  took  a  client  to  see  your 
house.  You  have  often  let  us  do  it  before;  but 
since  I  was  there  last  you've  made  some  changes. 
In  your  bedroom — "  Post  stopped. 

Cochran's  nai've  habit  of  blushing  told  him  it 
was  not  necessary  to  proceed.  In  tones  of  rage 
and  mortification  Cochran  swore  explosively;  Post 
was  relieved  to  find  he  was  swearing  at  himself. 

"I  ought  to  be  horsewhipped!"  roared  Coch 
ran.  "I'll  never  forgive  myself!  Who,"  he  de 
manded,  "saw  the  pictures?  Was  it  a  man  or  a 
woman  ? " 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

Post  laughed  unhappily. 

"It  was  Chester  Griswold." 

A  remarkable  change  came  over  Cochran.  In 
stead  of  sobering  him,  as  Post  supposed  it  would, 
the  information  made  him  even  more  angry — only 
now  his  anger  was  transferred  from  himself  to 
Griswold. 

"The  blankety-blank  bounder!"  yelled  Coch 
ran.  "That  was  what  he  wanted !  That's  why  he 
came  here!" 

"Here!"  demanded  Post. 

"Not  an  hour  ago,"  cried  Cochran.  "He  asked 
me  about  Bar  Harbor.  He  saw  those  pictures 
were  taken  at  Bar  Harbor!" 

"I  think,"  said  Post  soothingly,  "he'd  a  right  to 
ask  questions.  There  were  so  many  pictures,  and 
they  were  very — well — very!" 

"I'd  have  answered  his  questions,"  roared  Coch 
ran,  "if  he'd  asked  them  like  a  man,  but  he  came 
snooping  down  here  to  spy  on  me.  He  tried  to 
trick  me.  He  insulted  me!  He  insulted  her!" 
He  emitted  a  howl  of  dismay.  "And  I  told  him 
I'd  never  been  to  Bar  Harbor — that  I'd  never  met 
Aline  Proctor!" 

Cochran  seized  his  coat  and  hat.  He  shouted  to 
one  of  the  office  boys  to  telephone  the  garage  for 
his  car. 

92 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

"What  are  you — where  are  you  going?"  de 
manded  Post. 

"I'm  going  home  first,"  cried  Cochran,  "to  put 
those  pictures  in  a  safe,  as  I  should  have  done 
three  months  ago.  And  then  I'm  going  to  find 
Chester  Griswold  and  tell  him  he's  an  ass  and  a 
puppy!" 

"If  you  do  that,"  protested  Post,  "you're  likely 
to  lose  us  a  very  valuable  client." 

"And  your  client,"  roared  Charles,  "is  likely  to 
lose  some  very  valuable  teeth!" 

As  Charles  whirled  into  the  country  road  in 
which  stood  his  house  he  saw  drawn  up  in  front 
of  it  the  long  gray  car  in  which,  that  morning, 
Chester  Griswold  had  called  at  the  office.  Coch 
ran  emitted  a  howl  of  anger.  Was  his  home  again 
to  be  invaded  ?  And  again  while  he  was  absent  ? 
To  what  extreme  would  Griswold's  jealousy  next 
lead  him?  He  fell  out  of  his  own  car  while  it  still 
moved,  and  leaped  up  the  garden  walk.  The  front 
rooms  of  the  house  were  empty,  but  from  his  bed 
room  he  heard,  raised  in  excited  tones,  the  voice  of 
Griswold.  The  audacity  of  the  man  was  so  sur 
prising,  and  his  own  delight  at  catching  him  red- 
handed  so  satisfying,  that  no  longer  was  Cochran 
angry.  The  Lord  had  delivered  his  enemy  into 
his  hands!  And,  as  he  advanced  toward  his  bed- 

93 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

room,  not  only  was  he  calm,  but,  at  the  thought 
of  his  revenge,  distinctly  jubilant.  In  the  passage 
way  a  frightened  maid  servant,  who,  at  his  unex 
pected  arrival,  was  now  even  more  frightened,  en 
deavored  to  give  him  an  explanation;  but  he  waved 
her  into  silence,  and,  striding  before  her,  entered 
his  bedroom. 

He  found  confronting  him  a  tall  and  beautiful 
young  woman.  It  was  not  the  Aline  Proctor  he 
knew.  It  was  not  the  well-poised,  gracious,  and 
distinguished  beauty  he  had  seen  gliding  among 
the  tables  at  Sherry's  or  throwing  smiles  over  the 
footlights.  This  Aline  Proctor  was  a  very  indig 
nant  young  person,  with  flashing  eyes,  tossing 
head,  and  a  stamping  foot.  Extended  from  her  at 
arm's  length,  she  held  a  photograph  of  herself  in 
a  heavy  silver  frame;  and,  as 'though  it  were  a 
weapon,  she  was  brandishing  it  in  the  face  of  Ches 
ter  Griswold.  As  Cochran,  in  amazement,  halted 
in  the  doorway  she  was  exclaiming: 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  know  Charles  Cochran!  I 
tell  you  so  now!  If  you  can't  believe  me " 

Out  of  the  corner  of  her  flashing  eyes  the  angry 
lady  caught  sight  of  Cochran  in  the  doorway. 
She  turned  upon  the  intruder  as  though  she  meant 
forcibly  to  eject  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  demanded.  Her  manner 
94 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

and  tone  seemed  to  add:  "And  what  the  deuce 
are  you  doing  here?" 

Charles  answered  her  tone. 

"I  am  Charles  Cochran,"  he  said.  "I  live  here. 
This  is  my  house!" 

These  words  had  no  other  effect  upon  Miss 
Proctor  than  to  switch  her  indignation  down  an 
other  track.  She  now  turned  upon  Charles. 

"Then,  if  this  is  your  house,"  cried  that  an 
gry  young  person,  "why  have  you  filled  it  with 
photographs  of  me  that  belong  to  some  one 
else?" 

Charles  saw  that  his  hour  had  come.  His  sin 
had  found  him  out.  He  felt  that  to  prevaricate 
would  be  only  stupid. 

Griswold  had  tried  devious  methods — and  look 
where  his  devious  methods  had  dumped  him! 
Griswold  certainly  was  in  wrong.  Charles  quickly 
determined  to  adopt  a  course  directly  opposite. 
Griswold  had  shown  an  utter  lack  of  confidence  in 
Aline.  Charles  decided  that  he  would  give  her 
his  entire  confidence,  would  throw  himself  upon 
the  mercy  of  the  court. 

"I  have  those  photographs  in  my  house,  Miss 
Proctor,"  he  said,  "because  I  have  admired  you  a 
long  time.  They  were  more  like  you  than  those  I 
could  buy.  Having  them  here  has  helped  me  a 

95 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

lot,  and  it  hasn't  done  you  any  harm.  You  know 
very  well  you  have  anonymous  admirers  all  over 
this  country.  I'm  only  one  of  them.  If  I  have 
offended,  I  have  offended  with  many,  many  thou 
sands." 

Already  it  has  been  related  that  Cochran  was 
very  good  to  look  upon.  At  the  present  mo 
ment,  as  he  spoke  in  respectful,  even  soulful  ac 
cents,  meekly  and  penitently  proclaiming  his  long- 
concealed  admiration,  Miss  Proctor  found  her 
indignation  melting  like  an  icicle  in  the  sun. 

Still,  she  did  not  hold  herself  cheaply.  She  was 
accustomed  to  such  open  flattery.  She  would  not 
at  once  capitulate. 

"But  these  pictures,"  she  protested,  "I  gave  to 
a  man  I  knew.  You  have  no  right  to  them.  They 
are  not  at  all  the  sort  of  picture  I  would  give  to  an 
utter  stranger!"  With  anxiety  the  lovely  lady 
paused  for  a  reply.  She  hoped  that  the  reply  the 
tall  young  man  with  appealing  eyes  would  make 
would  be  such  as  to  make  it  possible  for  her  to 
forgive  him. 

He  was  not  given  time  to  reply.  With  a  mock 
ing  snort  Griswold  interrupted.  Aline  and  Charles 
had  entirely  forgotten  him. 

"An  utter  stranger!"  mimicked  Griswold.  "Oh, 
yes;  he's  an  utter  stranger!  You're  pretty  good 

96 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

actors,  both  of  you;  but  you  can't  keep  that  up 
long,  and  you'd  better  stop  it  now." 

"Stop  what?"  asked  Miss  Proctor.  Her  tone 
was  cold  and  calm,  but  in  her  eyes  was  a  strange 
light.  It  should  have  warned  Griswold  that  he 
would  have  been  safer  under  the  bed. 

"Stop  pretending!"  cried  Griswold.  "I  won't 
have  it!" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Miss  Proctor.  She 
spoke  in  the  same  cold  voice,  only  now  it  had 
dropped  several  degrees  nearer  freezing.  "I  don't 
think  you  understand  yourself.  You  won't  have 
what?" 

Griswold  now  was  frightened,  and  that  made 
him  reckless.  Instead  of  withdrawing  he  plunged 
deeper. 

"I  won't  have  you  two  pretending  you  don't 
know  each  other,"  he  blustered.  "I  won't  stand 
being  fooled !  If  you're  going  to  deceive  me  before 
we're  married,  what  will  you  do  after  we're  mar 
ried?" 

Charles  emitted  a  howl.  It  was  made  up  of  dis 
gust,  amazement,  and  rage.  Fiercely  he  turned 
upon  Miss  Proctor. 

"Let  me  have  him!"  he  begged. 

"No!"  almost  shouted  Miss  Proctor.  Her  tone 
was  no  longer  cold — it  was  volcanic.  Her  eyes, 

97 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

flashing  beautifully,  were  fixed  upon  Griswold. 
She  made  a  gesture  as  though  to  sweep  Charles 
out  of  the  room.  "Please  go!"  she  demanded. 
"This  does  not  concern  you." 

Her  tone  was  one  not  lightly  to  be  disregarded. 
Charles  disregarded  it. 

"It  does  concern  me,"  he  said  briskly.  "No 
body  can  insult  a  woman  in  my  house — you,  least 
of  all!"  He  turned  upon  the  greatest  catch  in 
America.  "Griswold,"  he  said,  "I  never  met  this 
lady  until  I  came  into  this  room;  but  I  know  her, 
understand  her,  value  her  better  than  you'd  un 
derstand  her  if  you  knew  her  a  thousand  years!" 

Griswold  allowed  him  to  go  no  farther. 

"I  know  this  much,"  he  roared:  "she  was  in 
love  with  the  man  who  took  those  photographs, 
and  that  man  was  in  love  with  her!  And  you're 
that  man!" 

"What  if  I  am!"  roared  back  Charles.  "Men 
always  have  loved  her;  men  always  will — because 
she's  a  fine,  big,  wonderful  woman!  You  can't  see 
that,  and  you  never  will.  You  insulted  her!  Now 
I'll  give  you  time  to  apologize  for  that,  and  then 
I'll  order  you  out  of  this  house!  And  if  Miss 
Proctor  is  the  sort  of  girl  I  think  she  is,  she'll  order 
you  out  of  it,  too!" 

Both  men  swung  toward  Miss  Proctor.  Her 
98 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

eyes  were  now  smiling  excitedly.     She  first  turned 
them  upon  Charles,  blushing  most  becomingly. 

"Miss  Proctor,"  she  said,  "hopes  she  is  the  sort 
of  girl  Mr.  Cochran  thinks  she  is."  She  then 
turned  upon  the  greatest  catch  in  America.  "You 
needn't  wait,  Chester,"  she  said,  "not  even  to 
apologize." 

Chester  Griswold,  alone  in  his  car,  was  driven 
back  to  New  York.  On  the  way  he  invented  a 
story  to  explain  why,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  he 
had  jilted  Aline  Proctor;  but  when  his  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  young  man  he  had  seen  working 
with  his  sleeves  rolled  up  he  decided  it  would  be 
safer  to  let  Miss  Proctor  tell  of  the  broken  engage 
ment  in  her  own  way. 

Charles  would  not  consent  to  drive  his  fair  guest 
back  to  New  York  until  she  had  first  honored  him 
with  her  presence  at  luncheon.  It  was  served  for 
two,  on  his  veranda,  under  the  climbing  honey 
suckles.  During  the  luncheon  he  told  her  all. 

Miss  Proctor,  in  the  light  of  his  five  years  of 
devotion,  magnanimously  forgave  him. 

"Such  a  pretty  house!"  she  exclaimed  as  they 
drove  away  from  it.  "When  Griswold  selected  it 
for  our  honeymoon  he  showed  his  first  appreciation 
of  what  I  really  like." 

"It  is  still  at  your  service!"  said  Charles. 
99 


Evil  to  Him  Who  Evil  Thinks 

Miss  Proctor's  eyes  smiled  with  a  strange  light, 
but  she  did  not  speak.  It  was  a  happy  ride;  but 
when  Charles  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  apartment- 
house  he  regarded  sadly  and  with  regret  the  bundle 
of  retrieved  photographs  that  she  carried  away. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  kindly. 

"I'm  thinking  of  going  back  to  those  empty 
frames?"  said  Charles,  and  blushed  deeply.  Miss 
Proctor  blushed  also.  With  delighted  and  guilty 
eyes  she  hastily  scanned  the  photographs.  Snatch 
ing  one  from  the  collection,  she  gave  it  to  him  and 
then  ran  up  the  steps. 

In  the  light  of  the  spring  sunset  the  eyes  of 
Charles  devoured  the  photograph  of  which,  at 
last,  he  was  the  rightful  owner.  On  it  was  writ 
ten:  "As  long  as  this  rock  lasts!" 

As  Charles  walked  to  his  car  his  expression  was 
distinctly  thoughtful. 


100 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 


THE  MEN  OF  ZANZIBAR 

WHEN  his  hunting  trip  in  Uganda  was  over, 
Hemingway   shipped    his    specimens    and 
weapons  direct  from  Mombasa  to  New  York,  but 
he  himself  journeyed  south  over  the  few  miles  that 
stretched  to  Zanzibar. 

On  the  outward  trip  the  steamer  had  touched 
there,  and  the  little  he  saw  of  the  place  had  so 
charmed  him  that  all  the  time  he  was  on  safari 
he  promised  himself  he  would  not  return  home 
without  revisiting  it.  On  the  morning  he  arrived 
he  had  called  upon  Harris,  his  consul,  to  inquire 
about  the  hotel;  and  that  evening  Harris  had  re 
turned  his  call  and  introduced  him  at  the  club. 

One  of  the  men  there  asked  Hemingway  what 
brought  him  to  Africa,  and  when  he  answered  sim 
ply  and  truthfully  that  he  had  come  to  shoot  big 
game,  it  was  as  though  he  had  said  something 
clever,  and  every  one  smiled.  On  the  way  back  to 
the  hotel,  as  they  felt  their  way  through  the  nar 
row  slits  in  the  wall  that  served  as  streets,  he 
asked  the  consul  why  every  one  had  smiled. 

The  consul  laughed  evasively. 
103 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

"It's  a  local  joke,"  he  explained.  "A  lot  of 
men  come  here  for  reasons  best  kept  to  themselves, 
and  they  all  say  what  you  said,  that  they've  come 
to  shoot  big  game.  It's  grown  to  be  a  polite  way 
of  telling  a  man  it  is  none  of  his  business." 

"But  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  protested 
Hemingway.  "I  really  have  been  after  big  game 
for  the  last  eight  months." 

In  the  tone  one  uses  to  quiet  a  drunken  man  or 
a  child,  the  consul  answered  soothingly. 

"Of  course,"  he  assented — "of  course  you 
have."  But  to  show  he  was  not  hopelessly  cred 
ulous,  and  to  keep  Hemingway  from  involving 
himself  deeper  he  hinted  tactfully:  "Maybe  they 
noticed  you  came  ashore  with  only  one  steamer 
trunk  and  no  gun-cases." 

"Oh,  that's  easily  explained,"  laughed  Hem 
ingway.  "My  heavy  luggage " 

The  consul  had  reached  his  house  and  his  "boy" 
was  pounding  upon  it  with  his  heavy  staff. 

"Please  don't  explain  to  me,"  he  begged.  "It's 
quite  unnecessary.  Down  here  we're  so  darned 
glad  to  see  any  white  man  that  we  don't  ask  any 
thing  of  him  except  that  he  won't  hurry  away. 
We  judge  them  as  they  behave  themselves  here; 
we  don't  care  what  they  are  at  home  or  why  they 
left  it." 

104 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

Hemingway  was  highly  amused.  To  find  that 
he,  a  respectable,  sport-loving  Hemingway  of 
Massachusetts,  should  be  mistaken  for  a  gun 
runner,  slave-dealer,  or  escaping  cashier  greatly 
delighted  him. 

"All  right!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'll  promise  not  to 
bore  you  with  my  past,  and  I  agree  to  be  judged 
by  Zanzibar  standards.  I  only  hope  I  can  live 
up  to  them,  for  I  see  I  am  going  to  like  the  place 
very  much." 

Hemingway  kept  his  promise.  He  bored  no 
one  with  confidences  as  to  his  ancestors.  Of  his 
past  he  made  a  point  never  to  speak.  He  preferred 
that  the  little  community  into  which  he  had 
dropped  should  remain  unenlightened,  should  take 
him  as  they  found  him.  Of  the  fact  that  a  college 
was  named  after  his  grandfather  and  that  on  his 
father's  railroad  he  could  travel  through  many 
States,  he  was  discreetly  silent. 

The  men  of  Zanzibar  asked  no  questions.  That 
Hemingway  could  play  a  stiff  game  of  tennis,  a 
stiffer  game  of  poker,  and,  on  the  piano,  songs  from 
home  was  to  them  sufficient  recommendation.  In 
a  week  he  had  become  one  of  the  most  popular 
members  of  Zanzibar  society.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  lived  there  always.  Hemingway  found  him 
self  reaching  out  to  grasp  the  warmth  of  the  place 

105 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

as  a  flower  turns  to  the  sun.  He  discovered  that 
for  thirty  years  something  in  him  had  been 
cheated.  For  thirty  years  he  had  believed  that 
completely  to  satisfy  his  soul  all  he  needed  was 
the  gray  stone  walls  and  the  gray-shingled  cabins 
under  the  gray  skies  of  New  England,  that  what 
in  nature  he  most  loved  was  the  pine  forests  and 
the  fields  of  goldenrod  on  the  rock-bound  coast  of 
the  North  Shore.  But  now,  like  a  man  escaped 
from  prison,  he  leaped  and  danced  in  the  glaring 
sunlight  of  the  equator,  he  revelled  in  the  reck 
less  generosity  of  nature,  in  the  glorious  confusion 
of  colors,  in  the  "blooming  blue"  of  the  Indian 
Ocean,  in  the  Arabian  nights  spent  upon  the 
housetops  under  the  purple  sky,  and  beneath  silver 
stars  so  near  that  he  could  touch  them  with  his 
hand. 

He  found  it  like  being  perpetually  in  a  comic 
opera  and  playing  a  part  in  one.  For  only  the 
scenic  artist  would  dare  to  paint  houses  in  such 
yellow,  pink,  and  cobalt-blue;  only  a  "producer" 
who  had  never  ventured  farther  from  Broadway 
than  the  Atlantic  City  boardwalk  would  have 
conceived  costumes  so  mad  and  so  magnificent. 
Instinctively  he  cast  the  people  of  Zanzibar  in  the 
conventional  roles  of  musical  comedy. 

His  choruses  were  already  in  waiting.  There 
106 


He  found  it  like  being  perpetually  in  a  comic  opera 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

was  the  Sultan's  body-guard  in  gold-laced  turbans, 
the  merchants  of  the  bazaars  in  red  fezzes  and 
gowns  of  flowing  silk,  the  Malay  sailors  in  blue, 
the  black  native  police  in  scarlet,  the  ladies  of  the 
harems  closely  veiled  and  cloaked,  the  market 
women  in  a  single  garment  of  orange,  or  scarlet, 
or  purple,  or  of  all  three,  and  the  happy,  hilarious 
Zanzibari  boys  in  the  color  God  gave  them. 

For  hours  he  would  sit  under  the  yellow-and- 
green  awning  of  the  Greek  hotel  and  watch  the 
procession  pass,  or  he  would  lie  under  an  umbrella 
on  the  beach  and  laugh  as  the  boatmen  lifted  their 
passengers  to  their  shoulders  and  with  them 
splash  through  the  breakers,  or  in  the  bazaars 
for  hours  he  would  bargain  with  the  Indian  mer 
chants,  or  in  the  great  mahogany  hall  of  the  Ivory 
House,  to  the  whisper  of  a  punka  and  the  tinkle 
of  ice  in  a  tall  glass,  listen  to  tales  of  Arab  raids, 
of  elephant  poachers,  of  the  trade  in  white  and 
black  ivory,  of  the  great  explorers  who  had  sat  in 
that  same  room — of  Emin  Pasha,  of  Livingstone, 
of  Stanley.  His  comic  opera  lacked  only  a  hero 
ine  and  the  love  interest. 

When  he  met  Mrs.  Adair  he  found  both.  Polly 
Adair,  as  every  one  who  dared  to  do  so  preferred 
to  call  her,  was,  like  himself,  an  American  and, 
though  absurdly  young,  a  widow.  In  the  States 

107 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

she  would  have  been  called  an  extremely  pretty 
girl.  In  a  community  where  the  few  dozen  white 
women  had  wilted  and  faded  in  the  fierce  sun  of 
the  equator,  and  where  the  rest  of  the  women  were 
jet  black  except  their  teeth,  which  were  dyed  an 
alluring  purple,  Polly  Adair  was  as  beautiful  as  a 
June  morning.  At  least,  so  Hemingway  thought 
the  first  time  he  saw  her,  and  each  succeeding  time 
he  thought  her  more  beautiful,  more  lovely,  more 
to  be  loved. 

He  met  her,  three  days  after  his  arrival,  at  the 
residence  of  the  British  agent  and  consul-general, 
where  Lady  Firth  was  giving  tea  to  the  six  nurses 
from  the  English  hospital  and  to  all  the  other 
respectable  members  of  Zanzibar  society. 

"My  husband's  typist,"  said  her  ladyship  as 
she  helped  Hemingway  to  tea,  "is  a  copatriot  of 
yours.  She's  such  a  nice  gell;  not  a  bit  like  an 
American.  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  in  this  aw 
ful  place  without  her.  Promise  me,"  she  begged 
tragically,  "you  will  not  ask  her  to  marry  you?" 

Unconscious  of  his  fate,  Hemingway  promised. 

"Because  all  the  men  do,"  sighed  Lady  Firth, 
"and  I  never  know  what  morning  one  of  the 
wretches  won't  carry  her  off  to  a  home  of  her  own. 
And  then  what  would  become  of  me  ?  Men  are  so 
selfish!  If  you  must  fall  in  love,"  suggested  her 

1 08 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

ladyship,  "promise  me  you  will  fall  in  love  with" — 
she  paused  innocently  and  raised  baby-blue  eyes, 
in  a  babylike  stare — "with  some  one  else." 

Again  Hemingway  promised.  He  bowed  gal 
lantly.  "That  will  be  quite  easy,"  he  said. 

Her  ladyship  smiled,  but  Hemingway  did  not 
see  the  smile.  He  was  looking  past  her  at  a 
girl  from  home,  who  came  across  the  terrace  car 
rying  in  her  hand  a  stenographer's  note-book. 

Lady  Firth  followed  the  direction  of  his  eyes 
and  saw  the  look  in  them.  She  exclaimed  with 
dismay: 

"Already!  Already  he  deserts  me,  even  before 
the  ink  is  dry  on  the  paper." 

She  drew  the  note-book  from  Mrs.  Adair's  fin 
gers  and  dropped  it  under  the  tea-table. 

"Letters  must  wait,  my  child,"  she  declared. 

"But  Sir  George — "  protested  the  girl. 

"Sir  George  must  wait,  too,"  continued  his  wife; 
"the  Foreign  Office  must  wait,  the  British  Empire 
must  wait  until  you  have  had  your  tea." 

The  girl  laughed  helplessly.  As  though  assured 
her  fellow  countryman  would  comprehend,  she 
turned  to  him. 

"They're  so  exactly  like  what  you  want  them 
to  be,"  she  said — "I  mean  about  their  tea!" 

Hemingway  smiled  back  with  such  intimate  un- 
109 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

derstanding  that  Lady  Firth  glanced  up  inquir 
ingly. 

"Have  you  met  Mrs. Adair  already?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Hemingway,  "but  I  have  been  try 
ing  to  meet  her  for  thirty  years." 

Perplexed,  the  Englishwoman  frowned,  and  then, 
with  delight  at  her  own  perspicuity,  laughed  aloud. 

"I  know,"  she  cried,  "in  your  country  you  are 
what  they  call  a  'hustler'!  Is  that  right?"  She 
waved  them  away.  "Take  Mrs.  Adair  over 
there,"  she  commanded,  "and  tell  her  all  the  news 
from  home.  Tell  her  about  the  railroad  accidents 
and  'washouts'  and  the  latest  thing  in  lynching." 

The  young  people  stretched  out  in  long  wicker 
chairs  in  the  shade  of  a  tree  covered  with  purple 
flowers.  On  a  perch  at  one  side  of  them  an  orang 
outang  in  a  steel  belt  was  combing  the  whiskers  of 
her  infant  daughter;  at  their  feet  what  looked  like 
two  chow  puppies,  but  which  happened  to  be  Lady 
Firth's  pet  lions,  were  chewing  each  other's  tooth 
less  gums;  and  in  the  immediate  foreground  the 
hospital  nurses  were  defying  the  sun  at  tennis  while 
the  Sultan's  band  played  selections  from  a  Gaiety 
success  of  many  years  in  the  past.  With  these 
surroundings  it  was  difficult  to  talk  of  home.  Nor 
on  any  later  occasions,  except  through  inadvert 
ence,  did  they  talk  of  home. 

no 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

For  the  reasons  already  stated,  it  amused  Hem 
ingway  to  volunteer  no  confidences.  On  account 
of  what  that  same  evening  Harris  told  him  of 
Mrs.  Adair,  he  asked  none. 

Harris  himself  was  a  young  man  in  no  way  in 
clined  to  withhold  confidences.  He  enjoyed  giv 
ing  out  information.  He  enjoyed  talking  about 
himself,  his  duties,  the  other  consuls,  the  Zanzi- 
baris,  and  his  native  State  of  Iowa.  So  long  as 
he  was  permitted  to  talk,  the  listener  could  select 
the  subject.  But,  combined  with  his  loquacity, 
Hemingway  had  found  him  kind-hearted,  intelli 
gent,  observing,  and  the  call  of  a  common  country 
had  got  them  quickly  together. 

Hemingway  was  quite  conscious  that  the  girl  he 
had  seen  but  once  had  impressed  him  out  of  all 
proportion  to  what  he  knew  of  her.  She  seemed 
too  good  to  be  true.  And  he  tried  to  persuade 
himself  that  after  eight  months  in  the  hinterland 
among  hippos  and  zebras  any  reasonably  attract 
ive  girl  would  have  proved  equally  disturbing. 

But  he  was  not  convinced.  He  did  not  wish  to 
be  convinced.  He  assured  himself  that  had  he 
met  Mrs.  Adair  at  home  among  hundreds  of  others 
he  would  have  recognized  her  as  a  woman  of  ex 
ceptional  character,  as  one  especially  charming. 
He  wanted  to  justify  this  idea  of  her;  he  wanted 

in 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

to  talk  of  Mrs.  Adair  to  Harris,  not  to  learn  more 
concerning  her,  but  just  for  the  pleasure  of  speak 
ing  her  name. 

He  was  much  upset  at  that,  and  the  discovery 
that  on  meeting  a  woman  for  the  first  time  he 
still  could  be  so  boyishly  and  ingenuously  moved 
greatly  pleased  him.  It  was  a  most  delightful 
secret.  So  he  acted  on  the  principle  that  when  a 
man  immensely  admires  a  woman  and  wishes  to 
conceal  that  fact  from  every  one  else  he  can  best 
do  so  by  declaring  his  admiration  in  the  frankest 
and  most  open  manner.  After  the  tea-party,  as 
Harris  and  himself  sat  in  the  consulate,  he  so  ex 
pressed  himself. 

"What  an  extraordinary  nice  girl,'*  he  exclaimed, 
"is  that  Mrs.  Adair!  I  had  a  long  talk  with  her. 
She  is  most  charming.  However  did  a  woman  like 
that  come  to  be  in  a  place  like  this?" 

Judging  from  his  manner,  it  seemed  to  Heming 
way  that  at  the  mention  of  Mrs.  Adair's  name  he 
had  found  Harris  mentally  on  guard,  as  though 
the  consul  had  guessed  the  question  would  come 
and  had  prepared  for  it. 

"She  just  dropped  in  here  one  day,"  said  Har 
ris,  "from  no  place  in  particular.  Personally,  I 
always  have  thought  from  heaven." 

"It's  a  good  address,"  said  Hemingway. 
112 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

" It  seems  to  suit  her,"  the  consul  agreed.  "Any 
way,  if  she  doesn't  come  from  there,  that's  where 
she's  going — just  on  account  of  the  good  she's 
done  us  while  she's  been  here.  She  arrived  four 
months  ago  with  a  typewriting-machine  and  let 
ters  to  me  from  our  consuls  in  Cape  Town  and 
Durban.  She  had  done  some  typewriting  for 
them.  It  seems  that  after  her  husband  died, 
which  was  a  few  months  after  they  were  married, 
she  learned  to  make  her  living  by  typewriting. 
She  worked  too  hard  and  broke  down,  and  the 
doctor  said  she  must  go  to  hot  countries,  the 
'hotter  the  better.'  So  she's  worked  her  way  half 
around  the  world  typewriting.  She  worked  chiefly 
for  her  own  consuls  or  for  the  American  com 
mission  houses.  Sometimes  she  stayed  a  month, 
sometimes  only  over  one  steamer  day.  But  when 
she  got  here  Lady  Firth  took  such  a  fancy  to  her 
that  she  made  Sir  George  engage  her  as  his  private 
secretary,  and  she's  been  here  ever  since." 

In  a  community  so  small  as  was  that  of  Zanzibar 
the  white  residents  saw  one  another  every  day, 
and  within  a  week  Hemingway  had  met  Mrs.  Adair 
many  times.  He  met  her  at  dinner,  at  the  British 
agency;  he  met  her  in  the  country  club,  where  the 
white  exiles  gathered  for  tea  and  tennis.  He  hired 
a  launch  and  in  her  honor  gave  a  picnic  on  the 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

north  coast  of  the  island,  and  on  three  glorious  and 
memorable  nights,  after  different  dinner-parties 
had  ascended  to  the  roof,  he  sat  at  her  side  and 
across  the  white  level  of  the  housetops  looked  down 
into  the  moonlit  harbor. 

Whatever  interest  the  two  young  people  felt  in 
each  other  was  in  no  way  discouraged  by  their  sur 
roundings.  In  the  tropics  the  tender  emotions  are 
not  winter  killed.  Had  they  met  at  home,  the 
conventions,  his  own  work,  her  social  duties  would 
have  kept  the  progress  of  their  interest  within  a 
certain  speed  limit.  But  they  were  in  a  place  free 
of  conventions,  and  the  preceding  eight  months 
which  Hemingway  had  spent  in  the  jungle  and  on 
the  plain  had  made  the  society  of  his  fellow  man, 
and  of  Mrs.  Adair  in  particular,  especially  at 
tractive. 

Hemingway  had  no  work  to  occupy  his  time,  and 
he  placed  it  unreservedly  at  the  disposition  of  his 
countrywoman.  In  doing  so  it  could  not  be  said 
that  Mrs.  Adair  encouraged  him.  Hemingway 
himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  acknowledge 
this.  From  the  day  he  met  her  he  was  conscious 
that  always  there  was  an  intangible  barrier  be 
tween  them.  Even  before  she  possibly  could  have 
guessed  that  his  interest  in  her  was  more  than  even 
she,  attractive  as  she  was,  had  the  right  to  expect, 

114 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

she  had  wrapped  around  herself  an  invisible  man 
tle  of  defence. 

There  were  certain  speeches  of  his  which  she 
never  heard,  certain  tones  to  which  she  never  re 
sponded.  At  moments  when  he  was  compliment 
ing  himself  that  at  last  she  was  content  to  be  in 
his  company,  she  would  suddenly  rise  and  join  the 
others,  and  he  would  be  left  wondering  in  what 
way  he  could  possibly  have  offended. 

He  assured  himself  that  a  woman,  young  and 
attractive,  in  a  strange  land  in  her  dependent  po 
sition  must  of  necessity  be  discreet,  but  in  his 
conduct  there  certainly  had  been  nothing  that 
was  not  considerate,  courteous,  and  straightfor 
ward. 

When  he  appreciated  that  he  cared  for  her  seri 
ously,  that  he  was  gloriously  happy  in  caring,  and 
proud  of  the  way  in  which  he  cared,  the  fact  that 
she  persistently  held  him  at  arm's  length  puzzled 
and  hurt.  At  first  when  he  had  deliberately  set  to 
work  to  make  her  like  him  he  was  glad  to  think 
that  owing  to  his  reticence  about  himself,  if  she 
did  like  him  it  would  be  for  himself  alone  and  not 
for  his  worldly  goods.  But  when  he  knew  her  bet 
ter  he  understood  that  if  once  Mrs.  Adair  made  up 
her  mind  to  take  a  second  husband,  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  social  and  financial  somebody,  and  not,  as 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

many  in  Zanzibar  supposed  Hemingway  to  be,  a 
social  outcast,  would  make  but  little  difference. 

Nor  was  her  manner  to  be  explained  by  the  fact 
that  the  majority  of  women  found  him  unattract 
ive.  As  to  that,  the  pleasant  burden  of  his  ex 
perience  was  to  the  contrary.  He  at  last  wondered 
if  there  was  some  one  else,  if  he  had  come  into  her 
life  too  late.  He  set  about  looking  for  the  man, 
and  so  he  believed  he  soon  found  him. 

Of  the  little  colony,  Arthur  Fearing  was  the 
man  of  whom  Hemingway  had  seen  the  least. 
That  was  so  because  Fearing  wished  it.  Like 
himself,  Fearing  was  an  American,  young,  and  a 
bachelor,  but,  very  much  unlike  Hemingway,  a 
hermit  and  a  recluse. 

Two  years  before  he  had  come  to  Zanzibar  look 
ing  for  an  investment  for  his  money.  In  Zanzibar 
there  were  gentlemen  adventurers  of  every  coun 
try,  who  were  welcome  to  live  in  any  country  save 
their  own. 

To  them  Mr.  Fearing  seemed  a  Heaven-sent 
victim.  But  to  him  their  alluring  tales  of  the 
fortunes  that  were  to  rise  from  buried  treasures, 
lost  mines,  and  pearl  beds  did  not  appeal.  In 
stead  he  conferred  with  the  consuls,  the  responsi 
ble  merchants,  the  partners  in  the  prosperous  trad 
ing  houses.  After  a  month  of  "looking  around" 

116 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

he  had  purchased  outright  the  good-will  and  stock 
of  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  commission  houses,  and 
soon  showed  himself  to  be  a  most  capable  man  of 
business.  But,  except  as  a  man  of  business,  no 
one  knew  him.  From  the  dim  recesses  of  his  ware 
house  he  passed  each  day  to  the  seclusion  of  his 
bungalow  in  the  country.  And,  although  every 
one  was  friendly  to  him,  he  made  no  friends. 

It  was  only  after  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Adair  that 
he  consented  to  show  himself,  and  it  was  soon 
noted  that  it  was  only  when  she  was  invited  that 
he  would  appear,  and  that  on  these  occasions  he 
devoted  himself  entirely  to  her.  In  the  presence 
of  others,  he  still  was  shy,  gravely  polite,  and 
speaking  but  little,  and  never  of  himself;  but  with 
Mrs.  Adair  his  shyness  seemed  to  leave  him,  and 
when  with  her  he  was  seen  to  talk  easily  and 
eagerly.  And,  on  her  part,  to  what  he  said,  Polly 
Adair  listened  with  serious  interest. 

Lady  Firth,  who,  at  home,  was  a  trained  and 
successful  match-maker,  and  who,  in  Zanzibar, 
had  found  but  a  limited  field  for  her  activities, 
decided  that  if  her  companion  and  protegee  must 
marry,  she  should  marry  Fearing. 

Fearing  was  no  gentleman  adventurer,  remit 
tance-man,  or  humble  clerk  serving  his  apprentice 
ship  to  a  steamship  line  or  an  ivory  house.  He 

117 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

was  one  of  the  pillars  of  Zanzibar  society.  The 
trading  house  he  had  purchased  had  had  its  be 
ginnings  in  the  slave-trade,  and  now  under  his 
alert  direction  was  making  a  turnover  equal  to  that 
of  any  of  its  ancient  rivals.  Personally,  Fearing 
was  a  most  desirable  catch.  He  was  well  man 
nered,  well  read,  of  good  appearance,  steady  and, 
in  a  latitude  only  six  degrees  removed  from  the 
equator,  of  impeccable  morals. 

It  is  said  that  it  is  the  person  who  is  in  love 
who  always  is  the  first  to  discover  his  successful 
rival.  It  is  either  an  instinct  or  because  his  con 
cern  is  deeper  than  that  of  others. 

And  so,  when  Hemingway  sought  for  the  influ 
ence  that  separated  him  from  Polly  Adair,  the  trail 
led  to  Fearing.  To  find  that  the  obstacle  in  the 
path  of  his  true  love  was  a  man  greatly  relieved 
him.  He  had  feared  thatwhat  was  in  the  thoughts 
of  Mrs.  Adair  was  the  memory  of  her  dead  hus 
band.  He  had  no  desire  to  cross  swords  with  a 
ghost.  But  to  a  living  rival  he  could  afford  to 
be  generous. 

For  he  was  sure  no  one  could  care  for  Polly 
Adair  as  he  cared,  and,  like  every  other  man  in 
love,  he  believed  that  he  alone  had  discovered  in 
her  beauties  of  soul  and  character  that  to  the  rest 
of  mankind  were  hidden.  This  knowledge,  he  as- 

118 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

sured  himself,  had  aroused  in  him  a  depth  of  de 
votion  no  one  else  could  hope  to  imitate,  and  this 
depth  of  devotion  would  in  time  so  impress  her, 
would  become  so  necessary  to  her  existence,  that 
it  would  force  her  at  last  into  the  arms  of  the  only 
man  who  could  offer  it. 

Having  satisfied  himself  in  this  fashion,  he  con 
tinued  cheerfully  on  his  way,  and  the  presence  of 
a  rival  in  no  way  discouraged  him.  It  only  was 
Polly  Adair  who  discouraged  him.  And  this,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  every  hour  of  the  day  he 
tried  to  bring  himself  pleasantly  to  her  notice. 
All  that  an  idle  young  man  in  love,  aided  and 
abetted  by  imagination  and  an  unlimited  letter  of 
credit,  could  do,  Hemingway  did.  But  to  no  end. 

The  treasures  he  dug  out  of  the  bazaars  and  pre 
sented  to  her,  under  false  pretences  as  trinkets  he 
happened  at  that  moment  to  find  in  his  pockets, 
were  admired  by  her  at  their  own  great  value,  and 
returned  also  under  false  pretences,  as  having  been 
offered  her  only  to  examine. 

"It  is  for  your  sister  at  home,  I  suppose,"  she 
prompted.  "It's  quite  lovely.  Thank  you  for 
letting  me  see  it." 

After  having  been  several  times  severely 
snubbed  in  this  fashion,  Hemingway  remarked 
grimly  as  he  put  a  black  pearl  back  into  his  pocket: 

119 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

"At  this  rate  sister  will  be  mighty  glad  to  see 
me  when  I  get  home.  It  seems  almost  a  pity  I 
haven't  got  a  sister." 

The  girl  answered  this  only  with  a  grave  smile. 

On  another  occasion  she  admired  a  polo  pony 
that  had  been  imported  for  the  stable  of  the 
boy  sultan.  But  next  morning  Hemingway,  after 
much  diplomacy,  became  the  owner  of  it  and 
proudly  rode  it  to  the  agency.  Lady  Firth  and 
Polly  Adair  walked  out  to  meet  him  arm  in  arm, 
but  at  sight  of  the  pony  there  came  into  the  eyes 
of  the  secretary  a  look  that  caused  Hemingway  to 
wish  himself  and  his  mount  many  miles  in  the 
jungle.  He  saw  that  before  it  had  been  prof 
fered,  his  gift-horse  had  been  rejected.  He  acted 
promptly. 

"Lady  Firth,"  he  said,  "you've  been  so  awfully 
kind  to  me,  made  this  place  so  like  a  home  to  me, 
that  I  want  you  to  put  this  mare  in  your  stable. 
The  Sultan  wanted  her,  but  when  he  learned  I 
meant  to  turn  her  over  to  you,  he  let  her  go.  We 
both  hope  you'll  accept." 

Lady  Firth  had  no  scruples.  In  five  minutes  she 
had  accepted,  had  clapped  a  side-saddle  on  her 
rich  gift,  and  was  cantering  joyously  down  the 
Pearl  Road. 

Polly  Adair  looked  after  her  with  an  expres- 
120 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

sion  that  was  distinctly  wistful.  Thus  encouraged, 
Hemingway  said: 

"I'm  glad  you  are  sorry.  I  hope  every  time  you 
see  that  pony  you'll  be  sorry." 

"Why  should  I  be  sorry?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Because  you  have  been  unkind,"  said  Hem 
ingway,  "and  it  is  not  your  character  to  be  unkind. 
And  that  you  have  shown  lack  of  character  ought 
to  make  you  sorry." 

"But  you  know  perfectly  well,"  said  Mrs. 
Adair,  "that  if  I  were  to  take  any  one  of  these 
wonderful  things  you  bring  me,  I  wouldn't  have 
any  character  left." 

She  smiled  at  him  reassuringly.  "And  you 
know,"  she  added,  "that  that  is  not  why  I  do  not 
take  them.  It  isn't  because  I  can't  afford  to,  or 
because  I  don't  want  them,  because  I  do;  but  it's 
because  I  don't  deserve  them,  because  I  can  give 
you  nothing  in  return." 

"As  the  copy-book  says,"  returned  Hemingway, 
"the  pleasure  is  in  the  giving.'  If  the  copy-book 
don't  say  that,  I  do.  And  to  pretend  that  you 
give  me  nothing,  that  is  ridiculous!" 

It  was  so  ridiculous  that  he  rushed  on  vehe 
mently.  "Why,  every  minute  you  give  me  some 
thing,"  he  exclaimed.  "Just  to  see  you,  just  to 
know  you  are  alive,  just  to  be  certain  when  I  turn 

121 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

in  at  night  that  when  the  world  wakes  up  again 
you  will  still  be  a  part  of  it;  that  is  what  you  give 
me.  And  its  name  is — Happiness!" 

He  had  begun  quite  innocently;  he  had  had  no 
idea  that  it  would  come.  But  he  had  said  it.  As 
clearly  as  though  he  had  dropped  upon  one  knee, 
laid  his  hand  over  his  heart  and  exclaimed:  "Most 
beautiful  of  your  sex,  I  love  you !  Will  you  marry 
me?"  His  eyes  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  had  said 
it.  And  he  knew  that  he  had  said  it,  and  that  she 
knew. 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  sudden  tears,  and  so 
wonderful  was  the  light  in  them  that  for  one  mad 
moment  Hemingway  thought  they  were  tears  of 
happiness.  But  the  light  died,  and  what  had 
been  tears  became  only  wet  drops  of  water,  and 
he  saw  to  his  dismay  that  she  was  most  miser 
able. 

The  girl  moved  ahead  of  him  to  the  clifFon  which 
the  agency  stood,  and  which  overhung  the  harbor 
and  the  Indian  Ocean.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with 
trouble.  As  she  raised  them  to  his  they  begged  of 
him  to  be  kind. 

"I  am  glad  you  told  me,"  she  said.  "I  have 
been  afraid  it  was  coming.  But  until  you  told  me 
I  could  not  say  anything.  I  tried  to  stop  you.  I 

was  rude  and  unkind " 

122 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

"You  certainly  were,"  Hemingway  agreed  cheer 
fully.  "And  the  more  you  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  me,  the  more  I  admired  you.  And  then  I 
learned  to  admire  you  more,  and  then  to  love  you. 
It  seems  now  as  though  I  had  always  known  and 
always  loved  you.  And  now  this  is  what  we  are 
going  to  do." 

He  wouldn't  let  her  speak;  he  rushed  on  precip 
itately. 

"We  are  first  going  up  to  the  house  to  get  your 
typewriting-machine,  and  we  will  bring  it  back 
here  and  hurl  it  as  far  as  we  can  off  this  clifF.  I 
want  to  see  the  splash !  I  want  to  hear  it  smash 
when  it  hits  that  rock.  It  has  been  my  worst 
enemy,  because  it  helped  you  to  be  independent 
of  me,  because  it  kept  you  from  me.  Time  after 
time,  on  the  veranda,  when  I  was  pretending  to 
listen  to  Lady  Firth,  I  was  listening  to  that 
damned  machine  banging  and  complaining  and 
tiring  your  pretty  fingers  and  your  dear  eyes.  So 
first  it  has  got  to  go.  You  have  been  its  slave, 
now  I  am  going  to  be  your  slave.  You  have  only 
to  rub  the  lamp  and  things  will  happen.  And 
because  I've  told  you  nothing  about  myself,  you 
mustn't  think  that  the  money  that  helps  to  make 
them  happen  is  'tainted.'  It  isn't.  Nor  am  I, 
nor  my  father,  nor  my  father's  father.  I  am  ask- 

123 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

ing  you  to  marry  a  perfectly  respectable  young 
man.  And,  when  you  do " 

Again  he  gave  her  no  opportunity  to  interrupt, 
but  rushed  on  impetuously:  "We  will  sail  away 
across  that  ocean  to  wherever  you  will  take  me. 
To  Ceylon  and  Tokio  and  San  Francisco,  to 
Naples  and  New  York,  to  Greece  and  Athens. 
They  are  all  near.  They  are  all  yours.  Will  you 
accept  them  and  me?"  He  smiled  appealingly, 
but  most  miserably.  For  though  he  had  spoken 
lightly  and  with  confidence,  it  was  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  at  all  confident.  As  he 
had  read  in  her  eyes  her  refusal  of  his  pony, 
he  had  read,  even  as  he  spoke,  her  refusal  of 
himself.  When  he  ceased  speaking  the  girl  an 
swered  : 

"If  I  say  that  what  you  tell  me  makes  me 
proud,  I  am  saying  too  little."  She  shook  her  head 
firmly,  with  an  air  of  finality  that  frightened  Hem 
ingway.  "But  what  you  ask — what  you  suggest 
is  impossible." 

"You  don't  like  me?"  said  Hemingway. 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  returned  the  girl,  "and, 
if  I  don't  seem  unhappy  that  it  can't  be,  it  is  be 
cause  I  always  have  known  it  can't  be " 

"  Why  can't  it  be?"  rebelled  Hemingway.  "I 
don't  mean  that  I  can't  understand  your  not  want- 

124 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

ing  to  marry  me,  but  if  I  knew  your  objection, 
maybe,  I  could  beat  it  down." 

Again,  with  the  same  air  of  finality,  the  girl 
moved  her  head  slowly,  as  though  considering  each 
word;  she  began  cautiously. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  the  reason/'  she  said,  "be 
cause  it  does  not  concern  only  myself." 

"If  you  mean  you  care  for  some  one  else," 
pleaded  Hemingway,  "that  does  not  frighten  me 
at  all."  It  did  frighten  him  extremely,  but,  be 
lieving  that  a  faint  heart  never  won  anything,  he 
pretended  to  be  brave. 

"For  you,"  he  boasted,  "I  would  go  down  into 
the  grave  as  deep  as  any  man.  He  that  hath 
more  let  him  give.  I  know  what  I  offer.  I  know 
I  love  you  as  no  other  man " 

The  girl  backed  away  from  him  as  though  he 
had  struck  her.  "You  must  not  say  that/'  she 
commanded. 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  that  she  was  moved, 
that  the  fingers  she  laced  and  unlaced  were  trem 
bling.  "It  is  final!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "I  can 
not  marry — you,  or  any  one.  I — I  have  prom 
ised.  I  am  not  free." 

"Nothing  in  the  world  is  final,"  returned  Hem 
ingway  sharply,  "except  death."  He  raised  his 
hat  and,  as  though  to  leave  her,  moved  away. 

125 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

Not  because  he  admitted  defeat,  but  because  he 
felt  that  for  the  present  to  continue  might  lose 
him  the  chance  to  fight  again.  But,  to  deliver  an 
ultimatum,  he  turned  back. 

"As  long  as  you  are  alive,  and  I  am  alive,"  he 
told  her,  "all  things  are  possible.  I  don't  give  up 
hope.  I  don't  give  up  you." 

The  girl  exclaimed  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 
"He  won't  understand!"  she  cried. 

Hemingway  advanced  eagerly. 

"Help  me  to  understand,"  he  begged. 

"You  won't  understand,"  explained  the  girl, 
"that  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  You  are  right 
that  things  can  change  in  the  future,  but  noth 
ing  can  change  the  past.  Can't  you  understand 
that?" 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  past?"  cried  the  young 
man  scornfully.  "I  know  you  as  well  as  though  I 
had  known  you  for  a  thousand  years  and  I  love 
you." 

The  girl  flushed  crimson. 

"Not  my  past,"  she  gasped.     "I  meant " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  meant,"  said  Heming 
way.  "I'm  not  prying  into  your  little  secrets.  I 
know  only  one  thing — two  things,  that  I  love  you 
and  that,  until  you  love  me,  I  am  going  to  make 
your  life  hell!" 

126 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

He  caught  at  her  hands,  and  for  an  instant  she 
let  him  clasp  them  in  both  of  his,  while  she  looked 
at  him. 

Something  in  her  face,  other  than  distress  and 
pity,  caused  his  heart  to  leap.  But  he  was  too 
wise  to  speak,  and,  that  she  might  not  read  the 
hope  in  his  eyes,  turned  quickly  and  left  her. 
He  had  not  crossed  the  grounds  of  the  agency  be 
fore  he  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the  reason  for 
her  repelling  him. 

"She  is  engaged  to  Fearing!"  he  told  himself. 
"She  has  promised  to  marry  Fearing!  She  thinks 
that  it  is  too  late  to  consider  another  man!"  The 
prospect  of  a  fight  for  the  woman  he  loved  thrilled 
him  greatly.  His  lower  jaw  set  pugnaciously. 

"I'll  show  her  it's  not  too  late,"  he  promised 
himself.  "I'll  show  her  which  of  us  is  the  man  to 
make  her  happy.  And,  if  I  am  not  the  man,  I'll 
take  the  first  outbound  steamer  and  trouble  them 
no  more.  But  before  that  happens,"  he  also 
promised  himself,  "Fearing  must  show  he  is  the 
better  man." 

In  spite  of  his  brave  words,  in  spite  of  his  deter 
mination,  within  the  day  Hemingway  had  with 
drawn  in  favor  of  his  rival,  and,  on  the  Crown 
Prince  Eitel,  bound  for  Genoa  and  New  York,  had 
booked  his  passage  home. 

127 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  he  had  spoken 
to  Polly  Adair,  Hemingway  at  the  sunset  hour  be 
took  himself  to  the  consulate.  At  that  hour  it  had 
become  his  custom  to  visit  his  fellow  countryman 
and  with  him  share  the  gossip  of  the  day  and  such 
a  cocktail  as  only  a  fellow  countryman  could  com 
pose.  Later  he  was  to  dine  at  the  house  of  the 
Ivory  Company  and,  as  his  heart  never  ceased  tell 
ing  him,  Mrs.  Adair  also  was  to  be  present. 

"It  will  be  a  very  pleasant  party,"  said  Harris. 
"They  gave  me  a  bid,  too,  but  it's  steamer  day 
to-morrow,  and  I've  got  to  get  my  mail  ready 
for  the  Crown  Prince  Eitel.  Mrs.  Adair  is  to  be 
there." 

Hemingway  nodded,  and  with  pleasant  anticipa 
tion  waited.  Of  Mrs.  Adair,  Harris  always  spoke 
with  reverent  enthusiasm,  and  the  man  who  loved 
her  delighted  to  listen.  But  this  time  Harris  dis 
appointed  him. 

"And  Fearing,  too,"  he  added. 

Again  Hemingway  nodded.  The  conjunction  of 
the  two  names  surprised  him,  but  he  made  no  sign. 
Loquacious  as  he  knew  Harris  to  be,  he  never  be 
fore  had  heard  his  friend  even  suggest  the  subject 
that  to  Zanzibar  had  become  of  acute  interest. 

Harris  filled  the  two  glasses,  and  began  to  pace 
the  room.  When  he  spoke  it  was  in  the  aggrieved 

128 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

tone  of  one  who  feels  himself  placed  in  a  false  posi 
tion. 

"There's  no  one,"  he  complained  suddenly,  "so 
popularly  unpopular  as  the  man  who  butts  in.  I 
know  that,  but  still  I've  always  taken  his  side. 
I've  always  been  for  him."  He  halted,  straddling 
with  legs  apart  and  hands  deep  in  his  trousers 
pockets,  and  frowned  down  upon  his  guest. 

"Suppose,"  he  began  aggressively,  "I  see  a  man 
driving  his  car  over  a  cliff.  If  I  tell  him  that  road 
will  take  him  over  a  cliff,  the  worst  that  can  hap 
pen  to  me  is  to  be  told  to  mind  my  own  business, 
and  I  can  always  answer  back:  'I  was  only  trying 
to  help  you.'  If  I  dont  speak,  the  man  breaks  his 
neck.  Between  the  two,  it  seems  to  me,  sooner 
than  have  any  one's  life  on  my  hands,  I'd  rather 
be  told  to  mind  my  own  business." 

Hemingway  stared  into  his  glass.  His  expres 
sion  was  distinctly  disapproving,  but,  undismayed, 
the  consul  continued. 

"Now,  we  all  know  that  this  morning  you  gave 
that  polo  pony  to  Lady  Firth,  and  one  of  us  guesses 
that  you  first  offered  it  to  some  one  else,  who  re 
fused  it.  One  of  us  thinks  that  very  soon,  to 
morrow,  or  even  to-night,  at  this  party  you  may 
offer  that  same  person  something  else,  something 
worth  more  than  a  polo  pony,  and  that  if  she  re- 

129 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

fuses  that,  it  is  going  to  break  you  all  up,  is  going 
to  hurt  you  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

Lifting  his  eyes  from  his  glass,  Hemingway  shot 
at  his  friend  a  glance  of  warning.  In  haste,  Harris 
continued : 

"I  know,"  he  protested,  answering  the  look,  "I 
know  that  this  is  where  Mr.  Buttinsky  is  told  to 
mind  his  business.  But  I'm  going  right  on.  I'm 
going  to  state  a  hypothetical  case  with  no  names 
mentioned  and  no  questions  asked,  or  answered. 
I'm  going  to  state  a  theory,  and  let  you  draw  your 
own  deductions." 

He  slid  into  a  chair,  and  across  the  table  fast 
ened  his  eyes  on  those  of  his  friend.  Confidently 
and  undisturbed,  but  with  a  wry  smile  of  dislike, 
Hemingway  stared  fixedly  back  at  him. 

"What,"  demanded  Harris,  "is  the  first  rule  in 
detective  work?" 

Hemingway  started.  He  was  prepared  for 
something  unpleasant,  but  not  for  that  particular 
form  of  unpleasantness.  But  his  faith  was  un 
shaken,  and  he  smiled  confidently.  He  let  the 
consul  answer  his  own  question. 

"It  is  to  follow  the  woman,"  declared  Harris. 
"And,  accordingly,  what  should  be  the  first  pre 
caution  of  a  man  making  his  get-away?  To  see 
that  the  woman  does  not  follow.  But  suppose  we 

130 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

are  dealing  with  a  fugitive  of  especial  intelligence, 
with  a  criminal  who  has  imagination  and  brains? 
He  might  fix  it  so  that  the  woman  could  follow  him 
without  giving  him  away,  he  might  plan  it  so  that 
no  one  would  suspect.  She  might  arrive  at  his 
hiding-place  only  after  many  months,  only  after 
each  had  made  separately  a  long  circuit  of  the 
globe,  only  after  a  journey  with  a  plausible  and 
legitimate  object.  She  would  arrive  disguised 
in  every  way,  and  they  would  meet  as  total 
strangers.  And,  as  strangers  under  the  eyes  of 
others,  they  would  become  acquainted,  would 
gradually  grow  more  friendly,  would  be  seen  more 
frequently  together,  until  at  last  people  would  say: 
'Those  two  mean  to  make  a  match  of  it.'  And 
then,  one  day,  openly,  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  with 
the  aid  of  the  law  and  the  church,  they  would 
resume  those  relations  that  existed  before  the 
man  ran  away  and  the  woman  followed." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

Hemingway  broke  it  in  a  tone  that  would  accept 
no  denial. 

"You  can't  talk  like  that  to  me"  he  cried. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

Without  resentment,  the  consul  regarded  him 
with  grave  solicitude.  His  look  was  one  of  real 
affection,  and,  although  his  tone  held  the  absolute 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

finality  of  the  family  physician  who  delivers  a  sen 
tence  of  death,  he  spoke  with  gentleness  and  regret. 

"I  mean,"  he  said,  "that  Mrs.  Adair  is  not  a 
widow,  that  the  man  she  speaks  of  as  her  late  hus 
band  is  not  dead;  that  that  man  is  Fearing!" 

Hemingway  felt  afraid.  A  month  before  a  rhi 
noceros  had  charged  him  and  had  dropped  at  his 
feet.  At  another  time  a  wounded  lioness  had 
leaped  into  his  path  and  crouched  to  spring. 
Then  he  had  not  been  afraid.  Then  he  had  aimed 
as  confidently  as  though  he  were  firing  at  a 
straw  target.  But  now  he  felt  real  fear:  fear  of 
something  he  did  not  comprehend,  of  a  situation 
he  could  not  master,  of  an  adversary  as  strong  as 
Fate.  By  a  word  something  had  been  snatched 
from  him  that  he  now  knew  was  as  dear  to  him 
as  life,  that  was  life,  that  was  what  made  it  worth 
continuing.  And  he  could  do  nothing  to  prevent 
it;  he  could  not  help  himself.  He  was  as  impotent 
as  the  prisoner  who  hears  the  judge  banish  him 
into  exile.  He  tried  to  adjust  his  mind  to  the 
calamity.  But  his  mind  refused.  As  easily  as 
with  his  finger  a  man  can  block  the  swing  of  a 
pendulum  and  halt  the  progress  of  the  clock,  Har 
ris  with  a  word  had  brought  the  entire  world  to  a 
full  stop. 

And  then,  above  his  head,  Hemingway  heard 
132 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

the  lazy  whisper  of  the  punka,  and  from  the  har 
bor  the  raucous  whistle  of  the  Crown  Prince  JEitel, 
signalling  her  entrance.  The  world  had  not 
stopped;  for  the  punka-boy,  for  the  captain  of  the 
German  steamer,  for  Harris  seated  with  face 
averted,  the  world  was  still  going  gayly  and  busily 
forward.  Only  for  him  had  it  stopped. 

In  spite  of  the  confident  tone  in  which  Harris  had 
spoken,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  unless  he  knew  it 
was  the  truth,  he  would  not  have  spoken,  Hem 
ingway  tried  to  urge  himself  to  believe  there  had 
been  some  hideous,  absurd  error.  But  in  answer 
came  back  to  him  snatches  of  talk  or  phrases  the 
girl  had  last  addressed  to  him:  "You  can  com 
mand  the  future,  but  you  cannot  change  the  past. 
I  cannot  marry  you,  or  any  one!  I  am  not  free!" 

And  then  to  comfort  himself,  he  called  up  the 
look  he  had  surprised  in  her  eyes  when  he  stood 
holding  her  hands  in  his.  He  clung  to  it,  as  a 
drowning  man  will  clutch  even  at  a  piece  of  float 
ing  seaweed. 

When  he  tried  to  speak  he  found  his  voice 
choked  and  stifled,  and  that  his  distress  was  evi 
dent,  he  knew  from  the  pity  he  read  in  the  eyes  of 
Harris. 

In  a  voice  strange  to  him,  he  heard  himself  say 
ing:  "Why  do  you  think  that?  You've  got  to  tell 

133 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

me.  I  have  a  right  to  know.  This  morning  I 
asked  Mrs.  Adair  to  marry  me." 

The  consul  exclaimed  with  dismay  and  squirmed 
unhappily.  "I  didn't  know,"  he  protested.  "I 
thought  I  was  in  time.  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
days  ago,  but " 

"Tell  me  now,"  commanded  Hemingway. 

"I  know  it  in  a  thousand  ways,"  began  Harris. 

Hemingway  raised  his  eyes  hopefully. 

But  the  consul  shook  his  head.  "But  to  con 
vince  you,"  he  went  on,  "I  need  tell  you  only  one. 
The  thousand  other  proofs  are  looks  they  have 
exchanged,  sentences  I  have  chanced  to  overhear, 
and  that  each  of  them  unknown  to  the  other  has 
told  me  of  little  happenings  and  incidents  which  I 
found  were  common  to  both.  Each  has  described 
the  house  in  which  he  or  she  lived,  and  it  was  the 
same  house.  They  claim  to  come  from  different 
cities  in  New  England,  they  came  from  the  same 
city.  They  claim " 

"That  is  no  proof,"  cried  Hemingway,  "either 
that  they  are  married,  or  that  the  man  is  a  crim 
inal." 

For  a  moment  Harris  regarded  the  other  in  si 
lence.  Then  he  said:  "You're  making  it  very  hard 
for  me.  I  see  I've  got  to  show  you.  It's  kindest, 
after  all,  to  cut  quick."  He  leaned  farther  for- 

134 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

ward,  and  his  voice  dropped.     Speaking  quickly, 
he  said: 

"Last  summer  I  lived  outside  the  town  in  a 
bungalow  on  the  Pearl  Road.  Fearing's  house  was 
next  to  mine.  This  was  before  Mrs.  Adair  went 
to  live  at  the  agency,  and  while  she  was  alone  in 
another  bungalow  farther  down  the  road.  I  was 
ill  that  summer;  my  nerves  went  back  on  me.  I 
couldn't  sleep.  I  used  to  sit  all  night  on  my  ve 
randa  and  pray  for  the  sun  to  rise.  From  where  I 
sat  it  was  dark  and  no  one  could  see  me,  but  I 
could  see  the  veranda  of  Fearing's  house  and  into 
his  garden.  And  night  after  night  I  saw  Mrs. 
Adair  creep  out  of  Fearing's  house,  saw  him  walk 
with  her  to  the  gate,  saw  him  in  the  shadow  of  the 
bushes  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  saw  them  kiss." 
The  voice  of  the  consul  rose  sharply.  "No  one 
knows  that  but  you  and  I,  and,"  he  cried  defiantly, 
"it  is  impossible  for  us  to  believe  ill  of  Polly  Adair. 
The  easy  explanation  we  refuse.  It  is  intolerable. 
And  so  you  must  believe  as  I  believe;  that  when 
she  visited  Fearing  by  night  she  went  to  him  be 
cause  she  had  the  right  to  go  to  him,  because  al 
ready  she  was  his  wife.  And  now  when  every  one 
here  believes  they  met  for  the  first  time  in  Zanzi 
bar,  when  no  one  will  be  surprised  if  they  should 
marry,  they  will  go  through  the  ceremony  again, 

I3S 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

and  live  as  man  and  wife,  as  they  are,  as  they  were 
before  he  fled  from  America!" 

Hemingway  was  seated  with  his  elbows  on  the 
table  and  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  was  so  long 
silent  that  Harris  struck  the  table  roughly  with 
his  palm. 

"Well,"  he  demanded,  "why  don't  you  speak? 
Do  you  doubt  her?  Don't  you  believe  she  is  his 
wife?" 

"I  refuse  to  believe  anything  else!"  said  Hem 
ingway.  He  rose,  and  slowly  and  heavily  moved 
toward  the  door.  "And  I  will  not  trouble  them 
any  more,"  he  added.  "I'll  leave  at  sunrise  on  the 


Harris  exclaimed  in  dismay,  but  Hemingway 
did  not  hear  him.  In  the  doorway  he  halted  and 
turned  back.  From  his  voice  all  trace  of  emotion 
had  departed.  "Why,"  he  asked  dully,  "do  you 
think  Fearing  is  a  fugitive?  Not  that  it  matters 
to  her,  since  she  loves  him,  or  that  it  matters  to  me. 
Only  I  would  like  to  think  you  were  wrong.  I 
want  her  to  have  only  the  best." 

Again  the  consul  moved  unhappily. 

"I  oughtn't  to  tell  you,"  he  protested,  "and  if  I 
do  I  ought  to  tell  the  state  department,  and  a  de 
tective  agency  first.  They  have  the  call.  They 
want  him,  or  a  man  damned  like  him."  His  voice 

136 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

dropped  to  a  whisper.  "The  man  wanted  is  Henry 
Brownell,  a  cashier  of  a  bank  in  Waltham,  Mass., 
thirty-five  years  of  age,  smooth-shaven,  college- 
bred,  speaking  with  a  marked  New  England  ac 
cent,  and — and  with  other  marks  that  fit  Fearing 
like  the  cover  on  a  book.  The  department  and 
the  Pinkertons  have  been  devilling  the  life  out  of 
me  about  it  for  nine  months.  They  are  positive 
he  is  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  I  put  them  off.  I 
wasn't  sure." 

"You've  been  protecting  them,"  said  Heming 
way. 

"I  wasn't  sure,"  reiterated  Harris.  "And  if  I 
were,  the  Pinkertons  can  do  their  own  sleuthing. 
The  man's  living  honestly  now,  anyway,  isn't  he?" 
he  demanded;  "and  she  loves  him.  At  least  she's 
stuck  by  him.  Why  should  I  punish  her?" 

His  tone  seemed  to  challenge  and  upbraid. 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  other,  "I'm  not  bla 
ming  you!  I'd  be  proud  of  the  chance  to  do  as 
much.  I  asked  because  I'd  like  to  go  away  think 
ing  she's  content,  thinking  she's  happy  with  him." 

"Doesn't  it  look  as  though  she  were?"  Harris 
protested.  "She's  followed  him — followed  him 
half  around  the  globe.  If  she'd  been  happier 
away  from  him,  she'd  have  stayed  away  from 
him.". 

137 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

So  intent  had  been  the  men  upon  their  talk  that 
neither  had  noted  the  passing  of  the  minutes  or, 
what  at  other  times  was  an  event  of  moment,  that 
the  mail  steamer  had  distributed  her  mail  and 
passengers;  and  when  a  servant  entered  bearing 
lamps,  and  from  the  office  the  consul's  clerk  ap 
peared  with  a  bundle  of  letters  from  the  Eitel, 
both  were  taken  by  surprise. 

"So  late?"  exclaimed  Hemingway.  "I  must  go. 
If  I'm  to  sail  with  the  Eitfl  at  daybreak,  I've  lit 
tle  time!" 

But  he  did  not  go. 

As  he  advanced  toward  Harris  with  his  hand 
outstretched  in  adieu,  the  face  of  the  consul  halted 
him.  With  the  letters,  the  clerk  had  placed  upon 
the  table  a  visiting-card,  and  as  it  lay  in  the  circle 
of  light  from  the  lamp  the  consul,  as  though  it 
were  alive  and  menacing,  stared  at  it  in  fas 
cination.  Moving  stiffly,  he  turned  it  so  that 
Hemingway  could  see.  On  it  Hemingway  read, 
"George  S.  Sheyer,"  and,  on  a  lower  line,  "Rep 
resenting  William  L.  Pinkerton." 

To  the  woman  he  loved  the  calamity  they 
dreaded  had  come,  and  Hemingway,  with  a  groan 
of  dismay,  exclaimed  aloud: 

"It  is  the  end!" 

From  the  darkness  of  the  outer  office  a  man 
138 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

stepped  softly  into  the  circle  of  the  lamp.  They 
could  see  his  figure  only  from  the  waist  down;  the 
rest  of  him  was  blurred  in  shadows. 

"'It  is  the  end'?"  he  repeated  inquiringly.  He 
spoke  the  phrase  with  peculiar  emphasis,  as  though 
to  impress  it  upon  the  memory  of  the  two  others. 
His  voice  was  cool,  alert,  authoritative.  "The 
end  of  what?"  he  demanded  sharply. 

The  question  was  most  difficult.  In  the  silence 
the  detective  moved  into  the  light.  He  was  tall 
and  strongly  built,  his  face  was  shrewd  and  intelli 
gent.  He  might  have  been  a  prosperous  man  of 
business. 

"Which  of  you  is  the  consul?"  he  asked.  But 
he  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  Hemingway. 

"I  am  the  consul,"  said  Harris.  But  still  the 
detective  did  not  turn  from  Hemingway. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  "did  this  gentleman,  when  he 
read  my  card,  say,  'It  is  the  end'?  The  end  of 
what?  Has  anything  been  going  on  here  that 
came  to  an  end  when  he  saw  my  card  ? " 

Disconcerted,  in  deep  embarrassment,  Harris 
struggled  for  a  word.  But  his  distress  was  not 
observed  by  the  detective.  His  eyes,  suspicious 
and  accusing,  still  were  fixed  upon  Hemingway,  and 
under  their  scrutiny  Harris  saw  his  friend  slowly 
retreat,  slowly  crumple  up  into  a  chair,  slowly 

139 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

raise  his  hands  to  cover  his  face.  As  though  in  a 
nightmare,  he  heard  him  saying  savagely: 

"It  is  the  end  of  two  years  of  hell,  it  is  the  end 
of  two  years  of  fear  and  agony!  Now  I  shall  have 
peace.  Now  I  shall  sleep!  I  thank  God  you've 
come!  I  thank  God  I  can  go  back!" 

Harris  broke  the  spell  by  leaping  to  his  feet.  He 
sprang  between  the  two  men. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  commanded. 

Hemingway  raised  his  eyes  and  surveyed  him 
steadily. 

"It  means,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  deceived 
you,  Harris — that  I  am  the  man  you  told  me 
of,  I  am  the  man  they  want."  He  turned  to  the 
officer. 

"I  fooled  him  for  four  months,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  fool  you  for  five  minutes." 

The  eyes  of  the  detective  danced  with  sudden 
excitement,  joy,  and  triumph.  He  shot  an  eager 
glance  from  Hemingway  to  the  consul. 

"This  man,"  he  demanded;   "who  is  he?" 

With  an  impatient  gesture  Hemingway  signified 
Harris. 

"He  doesn't  know  who  I  am,"  he  said.  "He 
knows  me  as  Hemingway.  I  am  Henry  Brownell, 
of  Waltham,  Mass."  Again  his  face  sank  into  the 
palms  of  his  hands.  "And  I'm  tired — tired,"  he 

140 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

moaned.  "I  am  sick  of  not  knowing,  sick  of  run 
ning  away.  I  give  myself  up." 

The  detective  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
seemed  to  issue  from  his  soul. 

"My  God,"  he  sighed,  "you've  given  me  a  long 
chase!  I've  had  eleven  months  of  you,  and  I'm 
as  sick  of  this  as  you  are."  He  recovered  him 
self  sharply.  As  though  reciting  an  incantation, 
he  addressed  Hemingway  in  crisp,  emotionless 
notes. 

"Henry  Brownell,"  he  chanted,  "I  arrest  you  in 
the  name  of  the  commonwealth  of  Massachusetts 
for  the  robbery,  on  October  the  eleventh,  nineteen 
hundred  and  nine,  of  the  Waltham  Title  and  Trust 
Company.  I  understand,"  he  added,  "you  waive 
extradition  and  return  with  me  of  your  own  free 
will?" 

With  his  face  still  in  his  hands,  Hemingway  mur 
mured  assent.  The  detective  stepped  briskly  and 
uninvited  to  the  table  and  seated  himself.  He 
was  beaming  with  triumph,  with  pleasurable  ex 
citement. 

"I  want  to  send  a  message  home,  Mr.  Consul," 
he  said.  "May  I  use  your  cable  blanks?" 

Harris  was  still  standing  in  the  centre  of  the 
room  looking  down  upon  the  bowed  head  and 
shoulders  of  Hemingway.  Since,  in  amazement, 

141 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

he  had  sprung  toward  him,  he  had  not  spoken. 
And  he  was  still  silent. 

Inside  the  skull  of  Wilbur  Harris,  of  Iowa, 
U.  S.  A.,  American  consul  to  Zanzibar,  East 
Africa,  there  was  going  forward  a  mighty  struggle 
that  was  not  fit  to  put  into  words.  For  Harris 
and  his  conscience  had  met  and  were  at  odds. 
One  way  or  the  other  the  fight  must  be  settled  at 
once,  and  whatever  he  decided  must  be  for  all 
time.  This  he  understood,  and  as  his  sympathies 
and  conscience  struggled  for  the  mastery  the  pen 
of  the  detective,  scratching  at  racing  speed  across 
the  paper,  warned  him  that  only  a  few  seconds 
were  left  him  in  which  to  protest  or  else  to  for 
ever  after  hold  his  peace. 

So  realistic  had  been  the  acting  of  Hemingway 
that  for  an  instant  Harris  himself  had  been  de 
ceived.  But  only  for  an  instant.  With  his  knowl 
edge  of  the  circumstances  he  saw  that  Heming 
way  was  not  confessing  to  a  crime  of  his  own, 
but  drawing  across  the  trail  of  the  real  criminal 
the  convenient  and  useful  red  herring.  He  knew 
that  already  Hemingway  had  determined  to  sail 
the  next  morning.  In  leaving  Zanzibar  he  was 
making  no  sacrifice.  He  merely  was  carrying 
out  his  original  plan,  and  by  taking  away  with 
him  the  detective  was  giving  Brownell  and  his 

142 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

wife  at  least  a  month  in  which  to  again  lose  them 
selves. 

What  was  his  own  duty  he  could  not  determine. 
That  of  Hemingway  he  knew  nothing,  he  could 
truthfully  testify.  And  if  now  Hemingway  claimed 
to  be  Henry  Brownell,  he  had  no  certain  knowledge 
to  the  contrary.  That  through  his  adventure 
Hemingway  would  come  to  harm  did  not  greatly 
disturb  him.  He  foresaw  that  his  friend  need  only 
send  a  wireless  from  Nantucket  and  at  the  wharf 
witnesses  would  swarm  to  establish  his  identity 
and  make  it  evident  the  detective  had  blundered. 
And  in  the  meanwhile  Brownell  and  his  wife,  in 
some  settlement  still  further  removed  from  obser 
vation,  would  for  the  second  time  have  fortified 
themselves  against  pursuit  and  capture.  He  saw 
the  eyes  of  Hemingway  fixed  upon  him  in  appeal 
and  warning. 

The  brisk  voice  of  the  detective  broke  the 
silence. 

"You  will  testify,  if  need  be,  Mr.  Consul,"  he 
said,  "that  you  heard  the  prisoner  admit  he  was 
Henry  Brownell  and  that  he  surrendered  himself 
of  his  own  free  will?" 

For  an  instant  the  consul  hesitated,  then  he 
nodded  stiffly. 

"I  heard  him,"  he  said. 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

Three  hours  later,  at  ten  o'clock  of  the  same 
evening,  the  detective  and  Hemingway  leaned  to 
gether  on  the  rail  of  the  Crown  Prince  Eitel. 
Forward,  in  the  glare  of  her  cargo  lights,  to  the 
puffing  and  creaking  of  derricks  and  donkey  en 
gines,  bundles  of  beeswax,  of  rawhides,  and  pre 
cious  tusks  of  ivory  were  being  hurled  into  the 
hold;  from  the  shore-boats  clinging  to  the  ship's 
sides  came  the  shrieks  of  the  Zanzibar  boys,  from 
the  smoking-room  the  blare  of  the  steward's  band 
and  the  clink  of  glasses.  Those  of  the  youth  of 
Zanzibar  who  were  on  board,  the  German  and 
English  clerks  and  agents,  saw  in  the  presence 
of  Hemingway  only  a  purpose  similar  to  their  own; 
the  desire  of  a  homesick  exile  to  gaze  upon  the 
mirrored  glories  of  the  Eitel's  saloon,  at  the  faces 
of  white  men  and  women,  to  listen  to  home-made 
music,  to  drink  home-brewed  beer.  As  he  passed 
the  smoking-room  they  called  to  him,  and  to  the 
stranger  at  his  elbow,  but  he  only  nodded  smiling 
and,  avoiding  them,  ascended  to  the  shadow  of  the 
deserted  boat-deck. 

"You  are  sure,"  he  said,  "you  told  no  one?" 
"No  one,"  the  detective  answered.     "Of  course 
your  hotel  proprietor  knows  you're  sailing,  but  he 
doesn't  know  why.     And,  by  sunrise,  we'll  be  well 
out  at  sea." 

144 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

The  words  caught  Hemingway  by  the  throat. 
He  turned  his  eyes  to  the  town  lying  like  a  field  of 
snow  in  the  moonlight.  Somewhere  on  one  of 
its  flat  roofs  a  merry  dinner  party  was  laughing, 
drinking,  perhaps  regretting  his  absence,  wonder 
ing  at  his  excuse  of  sudden  illness.  She  was  there, 
and  he  with  the  detective  like  a  shadow  at  his  el 
bow,  was  sailing  out  of  her  life  forever.  He  had 
seen  her  for  the  last  time:  that  morning  for  the 
last  time  had  looked  into  her  eyes,  had  held  her 
hands  in  his.  He  saw  the  white  beach,  the  white 
fortress-like  walls,  the  hanging  gardens,  the  curt 
seying  palms,  dimly.  It  was  among  those  that 
he  who  had  thought  himself  content,  had  found 
happiness,  and  had  then  seen  it  desert  him  and 
take  out  of  his  life  pleasure  in  all  other  things. 
With  a  pain  that  seemed  impossible  to  support, 
he  turned  his  back  upon  Zanzibar  and  all  it  meant 
to  him.  And,  as  he  turned,  he  faced,  coming  to 
ward  him,  across  the  moonlit  deck,  Fearing. 

His  instinct  was  to  cry  out  to  the  man  in  warn 
ing,  but  his  second  thought  showed  him  that 
through  his  very  effort  to  protect  the  other,  he 
might  bring  about  his  undoing.  So,  helpless  to 
prevent,  in  agitation  and  alarm,  he  waited  in 
silence.  Of  the  two  men,  Fearing  appeared  the 
least  disturbed.  With  a  polite  but  authoritative 

H5 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

gesture  he  turned  to  the  detective.  "  I  have  some 
thing  to  say  to  this  gentleman  before  he  sails,"  he 
said;  "would  you  kindly  stand  over  there?" 

He  pointed  across  the  empty  deck  at  the  other 
rail. 

In  the  alert,  confident  young  man  in  the  English 
mess-jacket,  clean  shaven  and  bronzed  by  the  suns 
of  the  equator,  the  detective  saw  no  likeness  to 
the  pale,  bearded  bank  clerk  of  the  New  England 
city.  This,  he  guessed,  must  be  some  English 
official,  some  friend  of  Brownell's  who  generously 
had  come  to  bid  the  unfortunate  fugitive  God 
speed. 

Assured  of  this,  the  detective  also  bowed  po 
litely,  and,  out  of  hearing,  but  with  his  prisoner  in 
full  view,  took  up  a  position  against  the  rail  oppo 
site. 

Turning  his  back  upon  the  detective,  and  facing 
Hemingway  with  his  eyes  close  to  his,  Fearing 
began  abruptly.  His  voice  was  sunk  to  a  whisper, 
but  he  spoke  without  the  slightest  sign  of  trepi 
dation,  without  the  hesitation  of  an  instant. 

"Two  years  ago,  when  I  was  indicted,"  he  whis 
pered,  "and  ran  away,  Polly  paid  back  half  of  the 
sum  I  stole.  That  left  her  without  a  penny;  that's 
why  she  took  to  this  typewriting.  Since  then,  I 
have  paid  back  nearly  all  the  rest.  But  Polly 

146 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

was  not  satisfied.  She  wanted  me  to  take  my 
punishment  and  start  fresh.  She  knew  they 
were  watching  her  so  she  couldn't  write  this  to 
me,  but  she  came  to  me  by  a  roundabout  way, 
taking  a  year  to  get  here.  And  all  the  time  she's 
been  here,  she's  been  begging  me  to  go  back  and 
give  myself  up.  I  couldn't  see  it.  I  knew  in  a 
few  months  I'd  have  paid  back  all  I  took,  and  I 
thought  that  was  enough.  I  wanted  to  keep  out 
of  jail.  But  she  said  I  must  take  my  medicine  in 
our  own  country,  and  start  square  with  a  clean 
slate.  She's  done  a  lot  for  me,  and  whether  I'd 
have  done  that  for  her  or  not,  I  don't  know.  But 
now,  I  must!  What  you  did  to-night  to  save  me, 
leaves  me  no  choice.  So,  I'll  sail " 

With  an  exclamation  of  anger,  Hemingway 
caught  the  other  by  the  shoulder  and  dragged 
him  closer. 

"To  save  you!"  he  whispered.  "No  one's 
thinking  of  you.  I  didn't  do  it  for  you.  I  did  it, 
that  you  both  could  escape  together,  to  give  you 
time " 

"  But  I  tell  you,"  protested  Fearing,  "she  doesn't 
want  me  to  escape.  And  maybe  she's  right. 
Anyway,  we're  sailing  with  you  at " 

"We?"  echoed  Hemingway. 

That  again  he  was  to  see  the  woman  he  loved, 
147 


The  Men  of  Zanzibar 

that  for  six  weeks  through  summer  seas  he  would 
travel  in  her  company,  filled  him  with  alarm,  with 
distress,  with  a  wonderful  happiness. 

"We?"  he  whispered,  steadying  his  voice. 
"Then — then  your  wife  is  going  with  you?" 

Fearing  gazed  at  him  as  though  the  other  had 
suddenly  gone  mad. 

"My  wife!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  haven't  got  a 
wife!  If  you  mean  Polly — Mrs.  Adair,  she  is  my 
sister!  And  she  wants  to  thank  you.  She's  be 
low " 

He  was  not  allowed  to  finish.  Hemingway  had 
flung  him  to  one  side,  and  was  racing  down  the 
deck. 

The  detective  sprang  in  pursuit. 

"One  moment,  there!"  he  shouted. 

But  the  man  in  the  white  mess-jacket  barred  his 
way. 

In  the  moonlight  the  detective  saw  that  the 
alert,  bronzed  young  man  was  smiling. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Fearing.  "He'll  be 
back  in  a  minute.  Besides,  you  don't  want  him. 
I'm  the  man  you  want." 


148 


THE  LONG  ARM 


THE  LONG  ARM 

THE  safe  was  an  old  one  that  opened  with  a 
key.  As  adjutant,  Captain  Swanson  had 
charge  of  certain  funds  of  the  regiment  and  kept 
in  the  safe  about  five  thousand  dollars.  No  one 
but  himself  and  RuefF,  his  first  sergeant,  had  access 
to  it.  And  as  Rueff  proved  an  alibi,  the  money 
might  have  been  removed  by  an  outsider.  The 
court  martial  gave  Swanson  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt,  and  a  reprimand  for  not  taking  greater  care 
of  the  keys,  and  Swanson  made  good  the  five 
thousand. 

Swanson  did  not  think  it  was  a  burglar  who  had 
robbed  the  safe.  He  thought  RuefF  had  robbed 
it,  but  he  could  not  possibly  prove  that.  At  the 
time  of  the  robbery  RuefF  was  outside  the  Presi 
dio,  in  uniform,  at  a  moving-picture  show  in  San 
Francisco.  A  dozen  people  saw  him  there.  Be 
sides,  RuefF  held  an  excellent  record.  He  was  a 
silent,  clerk-like  young  man,  better  at  "paper 
work"  than  campaigning,  but  even  as  a  soldier 
he  had  never  come  upon  the  books.  And  he  had 
seen  service  in  two  campaigns,  and  was  supposed 


The  Long  Arm 

to  cherish  ambitions  toward  a  commission.  But, 
as  he  kept  much  to  himself,  his  fellow  non-coms 
could  only  guess  that. 

On  his  captain's  account  he  was  loyally  dis 
tressed  over  the  court-martial,  and  in  his  testimony 
tried  to  shield  Swanson,  by  agreeing  heartily  that 
through  his  own  carelessness  the  keys  might  have 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  some  one  outside  the  post. 
But  his  loyalty  could  not  save  his  superior  officer 
from  what  was  a  verdict  virtually  of  "not  proven." 

It  was  a  most  distressing  affair,  and,  on  account 
of  the  social  prominence  of  Swanson's  people,  his 
own  popularity,  and  the  name  he  had  made  at 
Batangas  and  in  the  Boxer  business,  was  much 
commented  upon,  not  only  in  the  services,  but  by 
the  newspapers  all  over  the  United  States. 

Every  one  who  knew  Swanson  knew  the  court- 
martial  was  only  a  matter  of  form.  Even  his  ene 
mies  ventured  only  to  suggest  that  overnight  he 
might  have  borrowed  the  money,  meaning  to  re 
place  it  the  next  morning.  And  the  only  reason 
for  considering  this  explanation  was  that  Swanson 
was  known  to  be  in  debt.  For  he  was  a  persist 
ent  gambler.  Just  as  at  Pekin  he  had  gambled 
with  death  for  his  number,  in  times  of  peace  he 
gambled  for  money.  It  was  always  his  own 
money. 

152 


The  Long  Arm 

From  the  start  Swanson's  own  attitude  toward 
the  affair  was  one  of  blind,  unreasoning  rage.  In 
it  he  saw  no  necessary  routine  of  discipline,  only 
crass,  ignorant  stupidity.  That  any  one  should 
suspect  him  was  so  preposterous,  so  unintelligent, 
as  to  be  nearly  comic.  And  when,  instantly,  he 
demanded  a  court  of  inquiry,  he  could  not  believe 
it  when  he  was  summoned  before  a  court  martial. 
It  sickened,  wounded,  deeply  affronted  him; 
turned  him  quite  savage. 

On  the  stand  his  attitude  and  answers  were  so 
insolent  that  his  old  friend  and  classmate,  Captain 
Copley,  who  was  acting  as  his  counsel,  would 
gladly  have  kicked  him.  The  findings  of  the 
court  martial,  that  neither  cleared  nor  condemned, 
and  the  reprimand,  were  an  intolerable  insult  to 
his  feelings,  and,  in  a  fit  of  bitter  disgust  with 
the  service  and  every  one  in  it,  Swanson  resigned. 
Of  course,  the  moment  he  had  done  so  he  was 
sorry.  Swanson's  thought  was  that  he  could  no 
longer  associate  with  any  one  who  could  believe 
him  capable  of  theft.  It  was  his  idea  of  showing 
his  own  opinion  of  himself  and  the  army. 

But  no  one  saw  it  in  that  light.  On  the  con 
trary,  people  said:  "Swanson  has  been  allowed  to 
resign."  In  the  army,  voluntarily  resigning  and 
being  "allowed  to  resign"  lest  greater  evils  befall, 

153 


The  Long  Arm 

are  two  vastly  different  things.  And  when  it  was 
too  late  no  one  than  Swanson  saw  that  more 
clearly.  His  anger  gave  way  to  extreme  morbid 
ness.  He  believed  that  in  resigning  he  had  assured 
every  one  of  his  guilt.  In  every  friend  and  stran 
ger  he  saw  a  man  who  doubted  him.  He  imagined 
snubs,  rebuffs,  and  coldnesses.  His  morbidness 
fastened  upon  his  mind  like  a  parasite  upon  a  tree, 
and  the  brain  sickened.  When  men  and  women 
glanced  at  his  alert,  well-set-up  figure  and  shoul 
ders,  that  even  when  he  wore  "cits"  seemed  to 
support  epaulets,  and  smiled  approvingly,  Swanson 
thought  they  sneered.  In  a  week  he  longed  to  be 
back  in  the  army  with  a  homesickness  that  made 
every  one  who  belonged  to  it  his  enemy. 

He  left  San  Francisco,  where  he  was  known  to 
all,  and  travelled  south  through  Texas,  and  then 
to  New  Orleans  and  Florida.  He  never  could  re 
call  this  period  with  clearness.  He  remembered 
changing  from  one  train  to  another,  from  one 
hotel  to  the  next.  Nothing  impressed  itself  upon 
him.  For  what  he  had  lost  nothing  could  give 
consolation.  Without  honor  life  held  no  charm. 
And  he  believed  that  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  he 
was  a  thief,  a  pariah,  and  an  outcast. 

He  had  been  in  Cuba  with  the  Army  of  Occupa 
tion,  and  of  that  beautiful  island  had  grown  fool- 

154 


The  Long  Arm 

ishly  fond.  He  was  familiar  with  every  part  of  it, 
and  he  believed  in  one  or  another  of  its  pretty 
ports  he  could  so  completely  hide  himself  that  no 
one  could  intrude  upon  his  misery.  In  the  States, 
in  the  newspapers  he  seemed  to  read  only  of  those 
places  where  he  had  seen  service,  of  those  places 
and  friends  and  associates  he  most  loved.  In  the 
little  Cuban  village  in  which  he  would  bury  him 
self  he  would  cut  himself  off  from  all  newspapers, 
from  all  who  knew  him;  from  those  who  had  been 
his  friends,  and  those  who  knew  his  name  only  to 
connect  it  with  a  scandal. 

On  his  way  from  Port  Tampa  to  Cuba  the  boat 
stopped  at  Key  West,  and  for  the  hour  in  which 
she  discharged  cargo  Swanson  went  ashore  and 
wandered  aimlessly.  The  little  town,  reared  on  a 
flat  island  of  coral  and  limestone,  did  not  long  de 
tain  him.  The  main  street  of  shops,  eating-houses, 
and  saloons,  the  pretty  residences  with  overhang 
ing  balconies,  set  among  gardens  and  magnolia- 
trees,  were  soon  explored,  and  he  was  returning  to 
the  boat  when  the  martial  music  of  a  band  caused 
him  to  halt.  A  side  street  led  to  a  great  gateway 
surmounted  by  an  anchor.  Beyond  it  Swanson 
saw  lawns  of  well-kept  grass,  regular  paths,  pretty 
cottages,  the  two-starred  flag  of  an  admiral,  and, 
rising  high  above  these,  like  four  Eiffel  towers, 

155 


The  Long  Arm 

the  gigantic  masts  of  a  wireless.  He  recognized 
that  he  was  at  the  entrance  to  the  Key  West  naval 
station,  and  turned  quickly  away. 

He  walked  a  few  feet,  the  music  of  the  band  still 
in  his  ears.  In  an  hour  he  would  be  steaming  to 
ward  Cuba,  and,  should  he  hold  to  his  present  pur 
pose,  in  many  years  this  would  be  the  last  time  he 
would  stand  on  American  soil,  would  see  the  uni 
form  of  his  country,  would  hear  a  military  band 
lull  the  sun  to  sleep.  It  would  hurt,  but  he  won 
dered  if  it  were  not  worth  the  hurt.  A  smart  ser 
geant  of  marines,  in  passing,  cast  one  glance  at 
the  man  who  seemed  always  to  wear  epaulets,  and 
brought  his  hand  sharply  to  salute.  The  act  de 
termined  Swanson.  He  had  obtained  the  salute 
under  false  pretences,  but  it  had  pleased,  not  hurt, 
him.  He  turned  back  and  passed  into  the  gate 
of  the  naval  station. 

From  the  gate  a  grass-lined  carriage  drive  led 
to  the  waters  of  the  harbor  and  the  wharves.  At 
its  extreme  end  was  the  band-stand,  flanked  on 
one  side  by  the  cottage  of  the  admiral,  on  the  other 
by  a  sail-loft  with  iron-barred  windows  and  white 
washed  walls.  Upon  the  turf  were  pyramids  of 
cannon-balls  and,  laid  out  in  rows  as  though  await 
ing  burial,  old-time  muzzle-loading  guns.  Across 
the  harbor  the  sun  was  sinking  into  the  coral  reefs, 

156 


The  Long  Arm 

and  the  spring  air,  still  warm  from  its  caresses,  was 
stirred  by  the  music  of  the  band  into  gentle, 
rhythmic  waves.  The  scene  was  one  of  peace,  or 
der,  and  content. 

But  as  Swanson  advanced,  the  measure  of  the 
music  was  instantly  shattered  by  a  fierce  volley  of 
explosions.  They  came  so  suddenly  and  sharply 
as  to  make  him  start.  It  was  as  though  from  his 
flank  a  quick-firing  gun  in  ambush  had  opened 
upon  him.  Swanson  smiled  at  having  been  taken 
unawares.  For  in  San  Francisco  he  often  had 
heard  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wireless.  But 
never  before  had  he  listened  to  an  attack  like  this. 

From  a  tiny  white-and-green  cottage,  squatting 
among  the  four  giant  masts,  came  the  roar  of  a 
forest  fire.  One  could  hear  the  crackle  of  the 
flames,  the  crash  of  the  falling  tree-trunks.  The 
air  about  the  cottage  was  torn  into  threads;  be 
neath  the  shocks  of  the  electricity  the  lawn  seemed 
to  heave  and  tremble.  It  was  like  some  giant 
monster,  bound  and  fettered,  struggling  to  be 
free.  Now  it  growled  sullenly,  now  in  impotent 
rage  it  spat  and  spluttered,  now  it  lashed  about 
with  crashing,  stunning  blows.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  wooden  walls  of  the  station  could  not 
contain  it. 

From  the  road  Swanson  watched,  through  the 
157 


The  Long  Arm 

open  windows  of  the  cottage,  the  electric  bolts 
flash  and  flare  and  disappear.  The  thing  appealed 
to  his  imagination.  Its  power,  its  capabilities  fas 
cinated  him.  In  it  he  saw  a  hungry  monster  reach 
ing  out  to  every  corner  of  the  continent  and  devour 
ing  the  news  of  the  world;  feeding  upon  tales  of 
shipwreck  and  disaster,  lingering  over  some  dainty 
morsel  of  scandal,  snatching  from  ships  and  cities 
two  thousand  miles  away  the  thrice-told  tale  of  a 
conflagration,  the  score  of  a  baseball  match,  the 
fall  of  a  cabinet,  the  assassination  of  a  king. 

In  a  sudden  access  of  fierceness,  as  though  in  an 
ecstasy  over  some  fresh  horror  just  received,  it 
shrieked  and  chortled.  And  then,  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  broken  forth,  it  sank  to  silence,  and  from  the 
end  of  the  carriage  drive  again  rose,  undisturbed, 
the  music  of  the  band. 

The  musicians  were  playing  to  a  select  audience. 
On  benches  around  the  band-stand  sat  a  half  dozen 
nurse-maids  with  knitting  in  their  hands,  the  baby- 
carriages  within  arm's  length.  On  the  turf  older 
children  of  the  officers  were  at  play,  and  up  and 
down  the  paths  bareheaded  girls,  and  matrons,  and 
officers  in  uniform  strolled  leisurely.  From  the 
vine-covered  cottage  of  Admiral  Preble,  set  in  a 
garden  of  flowering  plants  and  bending  palmettos, 
came  the  tinkle  of  tea-cups  and  the  ripple  of 

158 


The  Long  Arm 

laughter,  and  at  a  respectful  distance,  seated  on  the 
dismantled  cannon,  were  marines  in  khaki  and 
bluejackets  in  glistening  white. 

It  was  a  family  group,  and  had  not  Swanson 
recognized  among  the  little  audience  others  of  the 
passengers  from  the  steamer  and  natives  of  the 
town  who,  like  himself,  had  been  attracted  by  the 
music,  he  would  have  felt  that  he  intruded.  He 
now  wished  to  remain.  He  wanted  to  carry  with 
him  into  his  exile  a  memory  of  the  men  in  uni 
form,  of  the  music,  and  pretty  women,  of  the  gor 
geous  crimson  sunset.  But,  though  he  wished  to 
remain,  he  did  not  wish  to  be  recognized. 

From  the  glances  already  turned  toward  him, 
he  saw  that  in  this  little  family  gathering  the  pres 
ence  of  a  stranger  was  an  event,  and  he  was  aware 
that  during  the  trial  the  newspapers  had  made  his 
face  conspicuous.  Also  it  might  be  that  stationed 
at  the  post  was  some  officer  or  enlisted  man  who 
had  served  with  him  in  Cuba,  China,  or  the  Phil 
ippines,  and  who  might  point  him  out  to  others. 
Fearing  this,  Swanson  made  a  detour  and  ap 
proached  the  band-stand  from  the  wharf,  and  with 
his  back  to  a  hawser-post  seated  himself  upon  the 
string-piece. 

He  was  overcome  with  an  intolerable  melan 
choly.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  see,  softened 

159 


The  Long  Arm 

into  shadows  by  the  wire  screens  of  the  veranda, 
Admiral  Preble  and  his  wife  and  their  guests  at  tea. 
A  month  before,  he  would  have  reported  to  the  ad 
miral  as  the  commandant  of  the  station,  and  paid 
his  respects.  Now  he  could  not  do  that;  at  least 
not  without  inviting  a  rebuff.  A  month  before,  he 
need  only  have  shown  his  card  to  the  admiral's 
orderly,  and  the  orderly  and  the  guard  and  the 
officers'  mess  and  the  admiral  himself  would  have 
turned  the  post  upside  down  to  do  him  honor. 
But  of  what  avail  now  was  his  record  in  three  cam 
paigns?  Of  what  avail  now  was  his  medal  of 
honor?  They  now  knew  him  as  Swanson,  who  had 
been  court-martialled,  who  had  been  allowed  to 
resign,  who  had  left  the  army  for  the  army's  good; 
they  knew  him  as  a  civilian  without  rank  or  au 
thority,  as  an  ex-officer  who  had  robbed  his  brother 
officers,  as  an  outcast. 

His  position,  as  his  morbid  mind  thus  distorted 
it,  tempted  Swanson  no  longer.  For  being  in  this 
plight  he  did  not  feel  that  in  any  way  he  was  to 
blame.  But  with  a  flaming  anger  he  still  blamed 
his  brother  officers  of  the  court  martial  who  had 
not  cleared  his  name  and  with  a  clean  bill  of  health 
restored  him  to  duty.  Those  were  the  men  he 
blamed;  not  Rueff,  the  sergeant,  who  he  believed 
had  robbed  him,  nor  himself,  who,  in  a  passion  of 

160 


The  Long  Arm 

wounded  pride,  had  resigned  and  so  had  given 
reason  for  gossip;  but  the  men  who  had  not  in 
tones  like  a  bugle-call  proclaimed  his  innocence, 
who,  when  they  had  handed  him  back  his  sword, 
had  given  it  grudgingly,  not  with  congratula 
tion. 

As  he  saw  it,  he  stood  in  a  perpetual  pillory. 
When  they  had  robbed  him  of  his  honor  they  had 
left  him  naked,  and  life  without  honor  had  lost  its 
flavor.  He  could  eat,  he  could  drink,  he  could 
exist.  He  knew  that  in  many  corners  of  the  world 
white  arms  would  reach  out  to  him  and  men  would 
beckon  him  to  a  place  at  table. 

But  he  could  not  cross  that  little  strip  of  turf 
between  him  and  the  chattering  group  on  the  ve 
randa  and  hand  his  card  to  the  admiral's  orderly. 
Swanson  loved  life.  He  loved  it  so  that  without 
help,  money,  or  affection  he  could  each  morning 
have  greeted  it  with  a  smile.  But  life  without 
honor!  He  felt  a  sudden  hot  nausea  of  disgust. 
Why  was  he  still  clinging  to  what  had  lost  its  pur 
pose,  to  what  lacked  the  one  thing  needful? 

"If  life  be  an  ill  thing,"  he  thought,  "I  can 
lay  it  down!" 

The  thought  was  not  new  to  him,  and  during 
the  two  past  weeks  of  aimless  wandering  he  had 
carried  with  him  his  service  automatic.  To  reas- 

161 


The  Long  Arm 

sure  himself  he  laid  his  fingers  on  its  cold  smooth 
surface.  He  would  wait,  he  determined,  until 
the  musicians  had  finished  their  concert  and  the 
women  and  children  had  departed,  and  then 

Then  the  orderly  would  find  him  where  he  was 
now  seated,  sunken  against  the  hawser-post  with 
a  hole  through  his  heart.  To  his  disordered  brain 
his  decision  appeared  quite  sane.  He  was  sure  he 
never  had  been  more  calm.  And  as  he  prepared 
himself  for  death  he  assured  himself  that  for  one 
of  his  standard  no  other  choice  was  possible. 
Thoughts  of  the  active  past,  or  of  what  distress 
in  the  future  his  act  would  bring  to  others,  did  not 
disturb  him.  The  thing  had  to  be,  no  one  lost 
more  heavily  than  himself,  and  regrets  were  cow 
ardly. 

He  counted  the  money  he  had  on  his  person  and 
was  pleased  to  find  there  was  enough  to  pay  for 
what  services  others  soon  must  render  him.  In 
his  pockets  were  letters,  cards,  a  cigarette-case, 
each  of  which  would  tell  his  identity.  He  had  no 
wish  to  conceal  it,  for  of  what  he  was  about  to  do 
he  was  not  ashamed.  It  was  not  his  act.  He 
would  not  have  died  "by  his  own  hand."  To  his 
unbalanced  brain  the  officers  of  the  court  martial 
were  responsible.  It  was  they  who  had  killed 
him.  As  he  saw  it,  they  had  made  his  death  as  in- 

162 


The  Long  Arm 

evitable  as  though  they  had  sentenced  him  to  be 
shot  at  sunrise. 

A  line  from  "The  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft" 
came  back  to  him.  Often  he  had  quoted  it,  when 
some  one  in  the  service  had  suffered  through 
the  fault  of  others.  It  was  the  death-cry  of  the 
boy  officer,  Devlin.  The  knives  of  the  Ghazi  had 
cut  him  down,  but  it  was  his  own  people's  aban 
doning  him  in  terror  that  had  killed  him.  And 
so,  with  a  sob,  he  flung  the  line  at  the  retreating 
backs  of  his  comrades:  "You've  killed  me,  you 
cowards!" 

Swanson,  nursing  his  anger,  repeated  this  sav 
agely.  He  wished  he  could  bring  it  home  to  those 
men  of  the  court  martial.  He  wished  he  could 
make  them  know  that  his  death  lay  at  their  door. 
He  determined  that  they  should  know.  On  one 
of  his  visiting-cards  he  pencilled: 

"To  the  Officers  of  my  Court  Martial:  'You've 
killed  me,  you  cowards!" 

He  placed  the  card  in  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat. 
They  would  find  it  just  above  the  place  where  the 
bullet  would  burn  the  cloth. 

The  band  was  playing  "Auf  Wiedersehen,"  and 
the  waltz  carried  with  it  the  sadness  that  had  made 
people  call  the  man  who  wrote  it  the  waltz  king. 
Swanson  listened  gratefully.  He  was  glad  that  be- 

163 


The  Long  Arm 

fore  he  went  out,  his  last  mood  had  been  of  regret 
and  gentleness.  The  sting  of  his  anger  had  de 
parted,  the  music  soothed  and  sobered  him.  It 
had  been  a  very  good  world.  Until  he  had  broken 
the  spine  of  things  it  had  treated  him  well,  far 
better,  he  admitted,  than  he  deserved.  There 
were  many  in  it  who  had  been  kind,  to  whom  he 
was  grateful.  He  wished  there  was  some  way  by 
which  he  could  let  them  know  that.  As  though  in 
answer  to  his  wish,  from  across  the  parade-ground 
the  wireless  again  began  to  crash  and  crackle;  but 
now  Swanson  was  at  a  greater  distance  from  it, 
and  the  sighing  rhythm  of  the  waltz  was  not  in 
terrupted. 

Swanson  considered  to  whom  he  might  send  a 
farewell  message,  but  as  in  his  mind  he  passed 
from  one  friend  to  another,  he  saw  that  to  each 
such  a  greeting  could  bring  only  distress.  He  de 
cided  it  was  the  music  that  had  led  him  astray. 
This  was  no  moment  for  false  sentiment.  He  let 
his  hand  close  upon  the  pistol. 

The  audience  now  was  dispersing.  The  nurse 
maids  had  collected  their  charges,  the  musicians 
were  taking  apart  their  music-racks,  and  from  the 
steps  of  the  vine-covered  veranda  Admiral  Preble 
was  bidding  the  friends  of  his  wife  adieu.  At  his 
side  his  aide,  young,  alert,  confident,  with  ill-con- 

164 


The  Long  Arm 

cealed  impatience  awaited  their  departure.  Swan- 
son  found  that  he  resented  the  aide.  He  resented 
the  manner  in  which  he  speeded  the  parting 
guests.  Even  if  there  were  matters  of  importance 
he  was  anxious  to  communicate  to  his  chief,  he 
need  not  make  it  plain  to  the  women  folk  that  they 
were  in  the  way. 

When,  a  month  before,  he  had  been  adjutant,  in 
a  like  situation  he  would  have  shown  more  self- 
command.  He  disapproved  of  the  aide  entirely. 
He  resented  the  fact  that  he  was  as  young  as  him 
self,  that  he  was  in  uniform,  that  he  was  an  aide. 
Swanson  certainly  hoped  that  when  he  was  in  uni 
form  he  had  not  looked  so  much  the  conquer 
ing  hero,  so  self-satisfied,  so  supercilious.  With  a 
smile  he  wondered  why,  at  such  a  moment,  a  man 
he  had  never  seen  before,  and  never  would  see 
again,  should  so  disturb  him. 

In  his  heart  he  knew.  The  aide  was  going 
forward  just  where  he  was  leaving  off.  The  rib 
bons  on  the  tunic  of  the  aide,  the  straps  on  his 
shoulders,  told  Swanson  that  they  had  served  in 
the  same  campaigns,  that  they  were  of  the  same 
relative  rank,  and  that  when  he  himself,  had  he 
remained  in  the  service,  would  have  been  a  briga 
dier-general  the  aide  would  command  a  battle-ship. 
The  possible  future  of  the  young  sailor  filled  Swan- 

165 


The  Long  Arm 

son  with  honorable  envy  and  bitter  regret.  With 
all  his  soul  he  envied  him  the  right  to  look  his  fel 
low  man  in  the  eye,  his  right  to  die  for  his  coun 
try,  to  give  his  life,  should  it  be  required  of  him, 
for  ninety  million  people,  for  a  flag.  Swanson  saw 
the  two  officers  dimly,  with  eyes  of  bitter  self-pity. 
He  was  dying,  but  he  was  not  dying  gloriously  for 
a  flag.  He  had  lost  the  right  to  die  for  it,  and  he 
was  dying  because  he  had  lost  that  right. 

The  sun  had  sunk  and  the  evening  had  grown 
chill.  At  the  wharf  where  the  steamer  lay  on 
which  he  had  arrived,  but  on  which  he  was  not 
to  depart,  the  electric  cargo-lights  were  already 
burning.  But  for  what  Swanson  had  to  do  there 
still  was  light  enough.  From  his  breast-pocket  he 
took  the  card  on  which  he  had  written  his  message 
to  his  brother  officers,  read  and  reread  it,  and  re 
placed  it. 

Save  for  the  admiral  and  his  aide  at  the  steps 
of  the  cottage,  and  a  bareheaded  bluejacket  who 
was  reporting  to  them,  and  the  admiral's  orderly, 
who  was  walking  toward  Swanson,  no  one  was  in 
sight.  Still  seated  upon  the  string-piece  of  the 
wharf,  Swanson  so  moved  that  his  back  was  toward 
the  four  men.  The  moment  seemed  propitious, 
almost  as  though  it  had  been  prearranged.  For 
with  such  an  audience,  for  his  taking  off  no  other 

166 


The  Long  Arm 

person  could  be  blamed.  There  would  be  no  ques 
tion  but  that  death  had  been  self-inflicted. 

Approaching  from  behind  him  Swanson  heard 
the  brisk  steps  of  the  orderly  drawing  rapidly 
nearer.  He  wondered  if  the  wharf  were  govern 
ment  property,  if  he  were  trespassing,  and  if  for 
that  reason  the  man  had  been  sent  to  order  him 
away.  He  considered  bitterly  that  the  govern 
ment  grudged  him  a  place  even  in  which  to  die. 
Well,  he  would  not  for  long  be  a  trespasser.  His 
hand  slipped  into  his  pocket,  with  his  thumb  he 
lowered  the  safety-catch  of  the  pistol. 

But  the  hand  with  the  pistol  in  it  did  not  leave 
his  pocket.  The  steps  of  the  orderly  had  come  to 
a  sudden  silence.  Raising  his  head  heavily,  Swan- 
son  saw  the  man,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him, 
standing  at  salute.  They  had  first  made  his  life 
unsupportable,  Swanson  thought,  now  they  would 
not  let  him  leave  it. 

"Captain  Swanson,  sir?"  asked  the  orderly. 

Swanson  did  not  speak  or  move. 

"The  admiral's  compliments,  sir,"  snapped  the 
orderly,  "and  will  the  captain  please  speak  with 
him?" 

Still  Swanson  did  not  move. 

He  felt  that  the  breaking-point  of  his  self-con 
trol  had  come.  This  impertinent  interruption,  this 

167 


The  Long  Arm 

thrusting  into  the  last  few  seconds  of  his  life  of  a 
reminder  of  all  that  he  had  lost,  this  futile  post 
ponement  of  his  end,  was  cruel,  unhuman,  un 
thinkable.  The  pistol  was  still  in  his  hand.  He 
had  but  to  draw  it  and  press  it  close,  and  before 
the  marine  could  leap  upon  him  he  would  have 
escaped. 

From  behind,  approaching  hurriedly,  came  the 
sound  of  impatient  footsteps. 

The  orderly  stiffened  to  attention.  "The  ad 
miral!"  he  warned. 

Twelve  years  of  discipline,  twelve  years  of  rec 
ognition  of  authority,  twelve  years  of  deference  to 
superior  officers,  dragged  Swanson's  hand  from  his 
pistol  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet.  As  he  turned, 
Admiral  Preble,  the  aide,  and  the  bareheaded  blue 
jacket  were  close  upon  him.  The  admiral's  face 
beamed,  his  eyes  were  young  with  pleasurable  ex 
citement;  with  the  eagerness  of  a  boy  he  waved 
aside  formal  greetings. 

"My  dear  Swanson,"  he  cried,  "I  assure  you  it's 
a  most  astonishing,  most  curious  coincidence!  See 
this  man?"  He  flung  out  his  arm  at  the  blue 
jacket.  "He's  my  wireless  chief.  He  was  wireless 
operator  on  the  transport  that  took  you  to  Manila. 
When  you  came  in  here  this  afternoon  he  recog 
nized  you.  Half  an  hour  later  he  picks  up  a  mes- 

168 


The  Long  Arm 

sage — picks  it  up  two  thousand  miles  from  here 
. — from  San  Francisco — Associated  Press  news — 
it  concerns  you;  that  is,  not  really  concerns  you, 
but  I  thought,  we  thought" — as  though  signalling 
for  help,  the  admiral  glanced  unhappily  at  his  aide 
— "we  thought  you'd  like  to  know.  Of  course,  to 
us,"  he  added  hastily,  "it's  quite  superfluous — 
quite  superfluous,  but ' 

The  aide  coughed  apologetically.  "You  might 
read,  sir,"  he  suggested. 

"What?   Exactly!  Quite  so!"  cried  the  admiral. 

In  the  fading  light  he  held  close  to  his  eyes  a 
piece  of  paper. 

"San  Francisco,  April  20,"  he  read.  "Rueff, 
first  sergeant,  shot  himself  here  to-day,  leaving 
written  confession  theft  of  regimental  funds  for 
which  Swanson,  captain,  lately  court-martialled. 
Money  found  intact  in  RuefFs  mattress.  Inno 
cence  of  Swanson  never  questioned,  but  dissat 
isfied  with  findings  of  court  martial  has  left  army. 
Brother  officers  making  every  effort  to  find  him 
and  persuade  return." 

The  admiral  sighed  happily.  "And  my  wife," 
he  added,  with  an  impressiveness  that  was  in 
tended  to  show  he  had  at  last  arrived  at  the 
important  part  of  his  message,  "says  you  are  to- 
stay  to  dinner." 

169 


The  Long  Arm 

Abruptly,  rudely,  Swanson  swung  upon  his  heel 
and  turned  his  face  from  the  admiral.  His  head 
was  thrown  back,  his  arms  held  rigid  at  his  sides. 
In  slow,  deep  breaths,  like  one  who  had  been 
dragged  from  drowning,  he  drank  in  the  salt,  chill 
air.  After  one  glance  the  four  men  also  turned, 
and  in  the  falling  darkness  stood  staring  at  noth 
ing,  and  no  one  spoke. 

The  aide  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  In  a 
polite  tone,  as  though  he  were  continuing  a  con 
versation  which  had  not  been  interrupted,  he  ad 
dressed  the  admiral.  "Of  course,  RuefFs  written 
confession  was  not  needed,"  he  said.  "His  shoot 
ing  himself  proved  that  he  was  guilty." 

Swanson  started  as  though  across  his  naked 
shoulders  the  aide  had  drawn  a  whip. 

In  penitence  and  gratitude  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  the  stars.  High  above  his  head  the  strands 
of  the  wireless,  swinging  from  the  towering  masts 
like  the  strings  of  a  giant  aeolian  harp,  were  swept 
by  the  wind  from  the  ocean.  To  Swanson  the 
sighing  and  whispering  wires  sang  in  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 


170 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 


THE  GOD  OF  COINCIDENCE 

THE  God  of  Coincidence  is  fortunate  in  pos 
sessing  innumerable  press  agents.  They 
have  made  the  length  of  his  arm  a  proverb.  How 
at  exactly  the  right  moment  he  extends  it  across 
continents  and  drags  two  and  two  together,  thus 
causing  four  to  result  where  but  for  him  sixes  and 
sevens  would  have  obtained,  they  have  made 
known  to  the  readers  of  all  of  our  best  magazines. 
For  instance,  Holworthy  is  leaving  for  the  Congo 
to  find  a  cure  for  the  sleeping  sickness,  and  for 
himself  any  sickness  from  which  one  is  warranted 
never  to  wake  up.  This  is  his  condition  because 
the  beautiful  million-heiress  who  is  wintering  at 
the  Alexander  Young  Hotel  in  Honolulu  has  re 
fused  to  answer  his  letters,  cables,  and  appeals. 

He  is  leaning  upon  the  rail  taking  his  last  neck- 
breaking  look  at  the  Woolworth  building.  The 
going-ashore  bugle  has  sounded,  pocket-handker 
chiefs  are  waving;  and  Joe  Hutton,  the  last  vis 
itor  to  leave  the  ship,  is  at  the  gangway. 

173 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"Good-by,  Holworthy!"  he  calls.  "Where  do 
you  keep  yourself?  Haven't  seen  you  at  the  club 
in  a  year!" 

"Haven't  been  there  in  a  year — nor  mean  to!" 
is  the  ungracious  reply  of  our  hero. 

"Then,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  exclaims  Hutton, 
"send  some  one  to  take  your  mail  out  of  the  H 
box!  Every  time  I  look  for  letters  I  wade  through 
yours." 

"Tear  them  up!"  calls  Holworthy.  "They're 
bills." 

Hutton  now  is  half-way  down  the  gangplank. 

"Then  your  creditors,"  he  shouts  back,  "must 
all  live  at  the  Alexander  Young  Hotel  in  Hono 
lulu!" 

That  night  an  express  train  shrieking  through 
the  darkness  carried  with  it  toward  San  Fran 
cisco 

In  this  how  evident  is  the  fine  Italian  hand  of 
the  God  of  Coincidence! 

Had  Hutton's  name  begun  with  an  M;  had  the 
H  in  Hutton  been  silent;  had  he  not  carried  to  the 
Mauretania  a  steamer  basket  for  his  rich  aunt; 
had  he  not  resented  the  fact  that  since  Holwor- 
thy's  election  to  the  Van  Sturtevant  Club  he  had 
ceased  to  visit  the  Grill  Club — a  cure  for  sleeping 
sickness  might  have  been  discovered;  but  two  lov- 

174 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

ing  hearts  never  would  have  been  reunited  and 
that  story  would  not  have  been  written. 

Or,  Mrs.  Montclair,  with  a  suit-case,  is  leaving 
her  home  forever  to  join  handsome  Harry  Bellairs, 
who  is  at  the  corner  with  a  racing-car  and  all  the 
money  of  the  bank  of  which  he  has  been  cashier. 
As  the  guilty  woman  places  the  farewell  letter 
against  the  pin-cushion  where  her  husband  will  be 
sure  to  find  it,  her  infant  son  turns  in  his  sleep 
and  jabs  himself  with  a  pin.  His  howl  of  anguish 
resembles  that  of  a  puppy  on  a  moonlight  night. 
The  mother  recognizes  her  master's  voice.  She 
believes  her  child  dying,  flies  to  the  bedside,  tears 
up  the  letter,  unpacks  the  suit-case.  The  next 
morning  at  breakfast  her  husband,  reading  the 
newspaper,  exclaims  aloud: 

"Harry  Bellairs,"  he  cries,  "has  skipped  with 
the  bank's  money!  I  always  told  you  he  was  not 
a  man  you  ought  to  know." 

"His  manner  to  me,"  she  says  severely,  "always 
was  that  of  a  perfect  gentleman." 

Again  coincidence  gets  the  credit.  Had  not  the 
child  tossed — had  not  at  the  critical  moment  the 
safety  pin  proved  untrue  to  the  man  who  invented 
it — that  happy  family  reunion  would  have  been 
impossible. 

Or,  it  might  be  told  this  way: 
175 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

Old  man  McCurdy,  the  Pig-iron  King,  forbids 
his  daughter  Gwendolyn  even  to  think  of  marrying 
poor  but  honest  Beef  Walters,  the  baseball  pitcher, 
and  denies  him  his  house.  The  lovers  plan  an 
elopement.  At  midnight  Beef  is  to  stand  at  the 
tradesman's  entrance  and  whistle  "Waiting  at  the 
Church";  and  down  the  silent  stairs  Gwendolyn  is 
to  steal  into  his  arms.  At  the  very  same  hour  the 
butler  has  planned  with  the  policeman  on  fixed 
post  to  steal  Mother  McCurdy's  diamonds  and 
pass  them  to  a  brother  of  the  policeman,  who  is 
to  wait  at  the  tradesman's  entrance  and  whistle 
"Waiting  for  the  Robert  E.  Lee." 

This  sounds  improbable — especially  that  the 
policeman  would  allow  even  his  brother  to  get  the 
diamonds  before  he  did;  but,  with  the  God  of  Coin 
cidence  on  the  job,  you  shall  see  that  it  will  all 
come  out  right.  Beef  is  first  at  the  door.  He 
whistles.  The  butler — an  English  butler — with  no 
ear  for  music,  shoves  into  his  hands  tiaras  and  sun 
bursts.  Honest  Beef  hands  over  the  butler  to  the 
policeman  and  the  tiaras  to  Mother  McCurdy. 

"How  can  I  reward  you?"  exclaims  the  grateful 
woman. 

"Your  daughter's  hand!" 

Again  the  God  of  Coincidence  scores  and  Beef 
Walters  is  credited  with  an  assist.  And  for  pre- 

176 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

venting  the  robbery  McCurdy  has  the  peg-post 
cop  made  a  captain;  thus  enabling  him  to  wear 
diamonds  of  his  own  and  raising  him  above  the 
need  of  taking  them  from  others. 

These  examples  of  what  the  god  can  do  are  mere 
fiction;  the  story  that  comes  now  really  happened. 
It  also  is  a  story  of  coincidence.  It  shows  how  this 
time  the  long  arm  was  stretched  out  to  make  two 
young  people  happy;  it  again  illustrates  that,  in 
the  instruments  he  chooses,  the  God  of  Coinci 
dence  works  in  a  mysterious  way  his  wonders  to 
perform.  This  time  the  tool  he  used  was  a  hat  of 
green  felt. 

The  story  really  should  be  called  "The  Man  in 
the  Green  Hat/' 

At  St.  James's  Palace  the  plenipotentiaries  of  the 
Allies  and  of  Turkey  were  trying  to  bring  peace 
to  Europe;  in  Russell  Square,  Bloomsbury,  Sam 
Lowell  was  trying  to  arrange  a  peace  with  Mrs. 
Wroxton,  his  landlady.  The  ultimatum  of  the 
Allies  was :  "  Adrianople  or  fight ! "  The  last  words 
of  Mrs.  Wroxton  were:  "Five  pounds  or  move 
out!" 

Sam  did  not  have  five  pounds.  He  was  a 
stranger  in  London;  he  had  lost  his  position  in  New 
York  and  that  very  morning  had  refused  to  marry 
the  girl  he  loved — Polly  Seward,  the  young  woman 

177 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

the  Sunday  papers  called  "The  Richest  Girl  in 
America." 

For  any  man — for  one  day — that  would  seem  to 
be  trouble  enough;  but  to  the  Sultan  of  Turkey 
that  day  brought  troubles  far  more  serious.  And, 
as  his  losses  were  Sam's  gain,  we  must  follow  the 
troubles  of  the  Sultan.  Until,  with  the  aid  of  a 
green  felt  hat,  the  God  of  Coincidence  turns  the 
misfortunes  of  the  Sultan  into  a  fortune  for  Sam, 
Sam  must  wait. 

From  the  first  days  of  the  peace  conference  it 
was  evident  there  was  a  leak.  The  negotiations 
had  been  opened  under  a  most  solemn  oath  of 
secrecy.  As  to  the  progress  of  the  conference,  only 
such  information  or  misinformation — if  the  dip 
lomats  considered  it  better — as  was  mutually 
agreed  upon  by  the  plenipotentiaries  was  given  to 
a  waiting  world.  But  each  morning,  in  addition 
to  the  official  report  of  the  proceedings  of  the  day 
previous,  one  newspaper,  the  Times,  published  an 
account  which  differed  from  that  in  every  other 
paper,  and  which  undoubtedly  came  from  the  in 
side.  In  details  it  was  far  more  generous  than  the 
official  report;  it  gave  names,  speeches,  arguments; 
it  described  the  wordy  battles  of  the  diplomats,  the 
concessions,  bluffs,  bargains. 

After  three  days  the  matter  became  public  scan- 
178 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

dal.  At  first,  the  plenipotentiaries  declared  the 
events  described  in  the  Times  were  invented  each 
evening  in  the  office  of  the  Times;  but  the  proceed 
ings  of  the  day  following  showed  the  public  this  was 
not  so. 

Some  one  actually  present  at  the  conference  was 
telling  tales  out  of  school.  These  tales  were  cabled 
to  Belgrade,  Sofia,  Athens,  Constantinople;  and 
hourly  from  those  capitals  the  plenipotentiaries 
were  assailed  by  advice,  abuse,  and  threats.  The 
whole  world  began  to  take  part  in  their  negotia 
tions;  from  every  side  they  were  attacked;  from 
home  by  the  Young  Turks,  or  the  On  to  Constan 
tinople  Party;  and  from  abroad  by  peace  societies, 
religious  bodies,  and  chambers  of  commerce.  Even 
the  armies  in  the  field,  instead  of  waiting  for  the 
result  of  their  deliberations,  told  them  what  to  do, 
and  that  unless  they  did  it  they  would  better  re 
main  in  exile.  To  make  matters  worse,  in  every 
stock  exchange  gambling  on  the  news  furnished 
by  the  Times  threatened  the  financial  peace  of 
Europe.  To  work  under  such  conditions  of  pub 
licity  was  impossible.  The  delegates  appealed  to 
their  hosts  of  the  British  Foreign  Office. 

Unless  the  chiel  amang  them  takin'  notes  was 
discovered  and  the  leak  stopped,  they  declared  the 
conference  must  end.  Spurred  on  by  questions  in 

179 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

Parliament,  by  appeals  from  the  great  banking 
world,  by  criticisms  not  altogether  unselfish  from  the 
other  newspapers,  the  Foreign  Office  surrounded 
St.  James's  Palace  and  the  office  of  the  Times  with 
an  army  of  spies.  Every  secretary,  stenographer, 
and  attendant  at  the  conference  was  under  sur 
veillance,  his  past  record  looked  into,  his  present 
comings  and  goings  noted.  Even  the  plenipoten 
tiaries  themselves  were  watched;  and  employees 
of  the  Times  were  secretly  urged  to  sell  the  gov 
ernment  the  man  who  was  selling  secrets  to  them. 
But  those  who  were  willing  to  be  "urged"  did  not 
know  the  man;  those  who  did  know  him  refused 
to  be  bought. 

By  a  process  of  elimination  suspicion  finally 
rested  upon  one  Adolf  Hertz,  a  young  Hungarian 
scholar  who  spoke  and  wrote  all  the  mongrel  lan 
guages  of  the  Balkans;  who  for  years,  as  a  copying 
clerk  and  translator,  had  been  employed  by  the 
Foreign  Office,  and  who  now  by  it  had  been  lent 
to  the  conference.  For  the  reason  that  when  he 
lived  in  Budapest  he  was  a  correspondent  of  the 
Times,  the  police,  in  seeking  for  the  leak,  centred 
their  attention  upon  Hertz.  But,  though  every 
moment  he  was  watched,  and  though  Hertz  knew 
he  was  watched,  no  present  link  between  him  and 
the  Times  had  been  established — and  this  in  spite 

1 80 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

of  the  fact  that  the  hours  during  which  it  was 
necessary  to  keep  him  under  closest  observation 
were  few.  Those  were  the  hours  between  the 
closing  of  the  conference,  and  midnight,  when  the 
provincial  edition  of  the  Times  went  to  press.  For 
the  remainder  of  the  day,  so  far  as  the  police  cared, 
Hertz  could  go  to  the  devil!  But  for  those  hours, 
except  when  on  his  return  from  the  conference  he 
locked  himself  in  his  lodgings  in  Jermyn  Street, 
detectives  were  always  at  his  elbow. 

It  was  supposed  that  it  was  during  this  brief 
period  when  he  was  locked  in  his  room  that  he 
wrote  his  report;  but  how,  later,  he  conveyed  it 
to  the  Times  no  one  could  discover.  In  his  rooms 
there  was  no  telephone;  his  doors  and  windows 
were  openly  watched;  and  after  leaving  his  rooms 
his  movements  were — as  they  always  had  been — 
methodical,  following  a  routine  open  to  observa 
tion.  His  programme  was  invariably  the  same. 
Each  night  at  seven  from  his  front  door  he  walked 
west.  At  Regent  Street  he  stopped  to  buy  an 
evening  paper  from  the  aged  news-vender  at  the 
corner;  he  then  crossed  Piccadilly  Circus  into  Cov 
entry  Street,  skirted  Leicester  Square,  and  at  the 
end  of  Green  Street  entered  Pavoni's  Italian  res 
taurant.  There  he  took  his  seat  always  at  the 
same  table,  hung  his  hat  always  on  the  same  brass 

181 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

peg,  ordered  the  same  Hungarian  wine,  and  read 
the  same  evening  paper.  He  spoke  to  no  one;  no 
one  spoke  to  him. 

When  he  had  finished  his  coffee  and  his  ciga 
rette  he  returned  to  his  lodgings,  and  there  he  re 
mained  until  he  rang  for  breakfast.  From  the 
time  at  which  he  left  his  home  until  his  return  to 
it  he  spoke  to  only  two  persons — the  news-vender 
to  whom  he  handed  a  halfpenny;  the  waiter  who 
served  him  the  regular  table  d'hote  dinner — be 
tween  whom  and  Hertz  nothing  passed  but  three 
and  six  for  the  dinner  and  sixpence  for  the  waiter 
himself. 

Each  evening,  the  moment  he  moved  into  the 
street  a  plain-clothes  man  fell  into  step  beside  him; 
another  followed  at  his  heels;  and  from  across  the 
street  more  plain-clothes  men  kept  their  eyes  on 
every  one  approaching  him  in  front  or  from  the 
rear.  When  he  bought  his  evening  paper  six  pairs 
of  eyes  watched  him  place  a  halfpenny  in  the  hand 
of  the  news-vender,  and  during  the  entire  time  of 
his  stay  in  Pavoni's  every  mouthful  he  ate  was 
noted — every  direction  he  gave  the  waiter  was 
overheard. 

Of  this  surveillance  Hertz  was  well  aware.  To 
have  been  ignorant  of  it  would  have  argued  him 
blind  and  imbecile.  But  he  showed  no  resent- 

182 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

ment.  With  eyes  grave  and  untroubled,  he  stead 
ily  regarded  his  escort;  but  not  by  the  hastening 
of  a  footstep  or  the  acceleration  of  a  gesture  did  he 
admit  that  by  his  audience  he  was  either  distressed 
or  embarrassed.  That  was  the  situation  on  the 
morning  when  the  Treaty  of  London  was  to  be 
signed  and  sealed. 

In  spite  of  the  publicity  given  to  the  conference 
by  the  Times,  however,  what  the  terms  of  the 
treaty  might  be  no  one  knew.  If  Adrianople  were 
surrendered;  if  Salonica  were  given  to  Greece;  if 
Servia  obtained  a  right-of-way  to  the  Adriatic — 
peace  was  assured;  but,  should  the  Young  Turks 
refuse — should  Austria  prove  obstinate — not  only 
would  the  war  continue,  but  the  Powers  would  be 
involved,  and  that  greater,  more  awful  war — the 
war  dreaded  by  all  the  Christian  world — might 
turn  Europe  into  a  slaughter-house. 

Would  Turkey  and  Austria  consent  and  peace 
ensue  ?  Would  they  refuse  and  war  follow  ?  That 
morning  those  were  the  questions  on  the  lips  of 
every  man  in  London  save  one.  He  was  Sam 
Lowell;  and  he  was  asking  himself  another  and 
more  personal  question:  "How  can  I  find  five 
pounds  and  pacify  Mrs.  Wroxton?" 

He  had  friends  in  Ne\r  York  who  would  cable 
him  money  to  pay  his  passage  home;  but  he  did 

183 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

not  want  to  go  home.  He  preferred  to  starve  in 
London  than  be  vulgarly  rich  anywhere  else.  That 
was  not  because  he  loved  London,  but  because 
above  everything  in  life  he  loved  Polly  Seward — 
and  Polly  Seward  was  in  London.  He  had  begun 
to  love  her  on  class  day  of  his  senior  year;  and, 
after  his  father  died  and  left  him  with  no  one  else 
to  care  for,  every  day  he  had  loved  her  more. 

Until  a  month  before  he  had  been  in  the  office 
of  Wetmore  &  Hastings,  a  smart  brokers'  firm  in 
Wall  Street.  He  had  obtained  the  position  not 
because  he  was  of  any  use  to  Wetmore  &  Hastings, 
but  because  the  firm  was  the  one  through  which 
his  father  had  gambled  the  money  that  would 
otherwise  have  gone  to  Sam.  In  giving  Sam  a 
job  the  firm  thought  it  was  making  restitution. 
Sam  thought  it  was  making  the  punishment  fit  the 
crime;  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  ways  of  Wall 
Street,  and  having  to  learn  them  bored  him  ex 
tremely.  He  wanted  to  write  stories  for  the  maga 
zines.  He  wanted  to  bind  them  in  a  book  and 
dedicate  them  to  Polly.  And  in  this  wish  editors 
humored  him — but  not  so  many  editors  or  with 
such  enthusiasm  as  to  warrant  his  turning  his 
back  on  Wall  Street. 

That  he  did  later  when,  after  a  tour  of  the  world 
that  had  begun  from  the  San  Francisco  side,  Polly 

184 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

Seward  and  her  mother  and  Senator  Seward 
reached  Naples.  There  Senator  Seward  bought 
old  Italian  furniture  for  his  office  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  floor  of  the  perfectly  new  Seward  building. 
Mrs.  Seward  tried  to  buy  for  Polly  a  prince  nearly 
as  old  as  the  furniture,  and  Polly  bought  picture 
post-cards  which  she  sent  to  Sam. 

Polly  had  been  absent  six  months,  and  Sam's 
endurance  had  been  so  timed  as  just  to  last  out 
the  half-year.  It  was  not  guaranteed  to  with 
stand  any  change  of  schedule,  and  the  two  months' 
delay  in  Italy  broke  his  heart.  It  could  not  run 
overtime  on  a  starvation  diet  of  post-cards;  so 
when  he  received  a  cable  reading,  "Address  Lon 
don,  Claridge's, "  his  heart  told  him  it  could  no 
longer  wait — and  he  resigned  his  position  and 
sailed. 

On  her  trip  round  the  world  Polly  had  learned 
many  things.  She  was  observant,  alert,  intent  on 
asking  questions,  hungering  for  facts.  And  a 
charming  young  woman  who.  seeks  facts  rather 
than  attention  will  never  lack  either.  But  of  all 
the  facts  Polly  collected,  the  one  of  surpassing  in 
terest,  and  which  gave  her  the  greatest  happiness, 
was  that  she  could  not  live  without  Sam  Lowell. 
She  had  suspected  this,  and  it  was  partly  to  make 
sure  that  she  had  consented  to  the  trip  round  the 

185 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

world.  Now  that  she  had  made  sure,  she  could  not 
too  soon  make  up  for  the  days  lost.  Sam  had 
spent  his  money,  and  he  either  must  return  to 
New  York  and  earn  more  or  remain  near  Polly 
and  starve.  It  was  an  embarrassing  choice. 
Polly  herself  made  the  choice  even  more  diffi 
cult. 

One  morning  when  they  walked  in  St.  James's 
Park  to  feed  the  ducks  she  said  to  him: 

"Sam,  when  are  we  to  be  married?" 

When  for  three  years  a  man  has  been  begging  a 
girl  to  marry  him,  and  she  consents  at  the  exact 
moment  when,  without  capitulation  to  all  that 
he  holds  honorable,  he  cannot  marry  anybody,  his 
position  deserves  sympathy. 

"My  dear  one,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  youth, 
"you  make  me  the  most  miserable  of  men!  I 
can't  marry!  I'm  in  an  awful  place!  If  I  mar 
ried  you  now  I'd  be  a  crook!  It  isn't  a  question 
of  love  in  a  cottage,  with  bread  and  cheese.  If 
cottages  were  renting  for  a  dollar  a  year  I  couldn't 
rent  one  for  ten  minutes.  I  haven't  cheese 
enough  to  bait  a  mouse-trap.  It's  terrible!  But 
we  have  got  to  wait." 

"Wait!"  cried  Polly.  "I  thought  you  had  been 
waiting!  Have  I  been  away  too  long?  Do  you 
love  some  one  else?" 

186 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"Don't  be  ridiculous!"  said  Sam  crossly. 
"Look  at  me,"  he  commanded,  "and  tell  me 
whom  I  love!" 

Polly  did  not  take  time  to  look. 

"But  I,"  she  protested,  "have  so  much  money!" 

"It's  not  your  money,"  explained  Sam.  "It's 
your  mother's  money  or  your  father's,  and  both 
of  them  dislike  me.  They  even  have  told  me  so. 
Your  mother  wants  you  to  marry  that  Italian; 
and  your  father,  having  half  the  money  in  America, 
naturally  wants  to  marry  you  to  the  other  half.  If 
I  were  selfish  and  married  you  I'd  be  all  the  things 
they  think  I  am." 

"You  are  selfish!"  cried  Polly.  "You're  think 
ing  of  yourself  and  of  what  people  will  say,  in 
stead  of  how  to  make  me  happy.  What's  the  use 
of  money  if  you  can't  buy  what  you  want?" 

"Are  you  suggesting  you  can  buy  me?"  de 
manded  Sam. 

"Surely,"  said  Polly — "if  I  can't  get  you  any 
other  way.  And  you  may  name  your  own  price, 
too." 

"When  I  am  making  enough  to  support  myself 
without  sponging  on  you,"  explained  Sam,  "you 
can  have  as  many  millions  as  you  like;  but  I  must 
first  make  enough  to  keep  me  alive.  A  man  who 
can't  do  that  isn't  fit  to  marry." 

187 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"How  much,"  demanded  Polly,  "do  you  need 
to  keep  you  alive?  Maybe  I  could  lend  it  to  you." 

Sam  was  entirely  serious. 

"Three  thousand  a  year,"  he  said. 

Polly  exclaimed  indignantly. 

"I  call  that  extremely  extravagant!"  she  cried. 
"If  we  wait  until  you  earn  three  thousand  a  year 
we  may  be  dead.  Do  you  expect  to  earn  that 
writing  stories?" 

"I  can  try,"  said  Sam — "or  I  will  rob  a  bank." 

Polly  smiled  upon  him  appealingly. 

"You  know  how  I  love  your  stories,"  she  said, 
"and  I  wouldn't  hurt  your  feelings  for  the  world; 
but,  Sam  dear,  I  think  you  had  better  rob  a  bank!" 

Addressing  an  imaginary  audience,  supposedly 
of  men,  Sam  exclaimed: 

"Isn't  that  just  like  a  woman?  She  wouldn't 
care,"  he  protested,  "how  I  got  the  money!" 

Polly  smiled  cheerfully. 

"Not  if  I  got  you!"  she  said.  In  extenuation, 
also,  she  addressed  an  imaginary  audience,  pre 
sumably  of  women.  "That's  how  I  love  him!" 
she  exclaimed.  "And  he  asks  me  to  wait!  Isn't 
that  just  like  a  man?  Seriously,"  she  went  on, 
"if  we  just  go  ahead  and  get  married  father  would 
have  to  help  us.  He'd  make  you  a  vice-president 
or  something." 

188 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

At  this  suggestion  Sam  expressed  his  extreme 
displeasure. 

"The  last  time  I  talked  to  your  father,"  he  said, 
"I  was  in  a  position  to  marry,  and  I  told  him  I 
wanted  to  marry  you.  What  he  said  to  that  was: 
*  Don't  be  an  ass!'  Then  I  told  him  he  was  unin 
telligent — and  I  told  him  why.  First,  because  he 
could  not  see  that  a  man  might  want  to  marry  his 
daughter  in  spite  of  her  money;  and  second,  be 
cause  he  couldn't  see  that  her  money  wouldn't 
make  up  to  a  man  for  having  him  for  a  father-in- 
law." 

"Did  you  have  to  tell  him  that?"  asked  Polly. 

"Some  one  had  to  tell  him,"  said  Sam  gloomily. 
"Anyway,  as  a  source  of  revenue  father  is  elimi 
nated.  I  have  still  one  chance  in  London.  If  that 
fails  I  must  go  home.  I've  been  promised  a  job 
in  New  York  reporting  for  a  Wall  Street  paper — 
and  I'll  write  stories  on  the  side.  I've  cabled  for 
money,  and  if  the  London  job  falls  through  I  shall 
sail  Wednesday." 

"Wednesday!"  cried  Polly.  "When  you  say 
things  like  'Wednesday'  you  make  the  world  so 
dark!  You  must  stay  here!  It  has  been  such  a 
long  six  months;  and  before  you  earn  three  thou 
sand  dollars  I  shall  be  an  old,  old  maid.  But  if 
you  get  work  here  we  could  see  each  other  every 
day." 

189 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

They  were  in  the  Sewards'  sitting-room  at 
Claridge's.  Sam  took  up  the  desk  telephone. 

"In  London,"  he  said,  "my  one  best  and  only 
bet  is  a  man  named  Forsythe,  who  helps  edit  the 
Pall  Mall.  I'll  telephone  him  now.  If  he  can 
promise  me  even  a  shilling  a  day  I'll  stay  on  and 
starve — but  I'll  be  near  you.  If  Forsythe  fails 
me  I  shall  sail  Wednesday." 

The  telephone  call  found  Forsythe  at  the  Pall 
Mall  office.  He  would  be  charmed  to  advise  Mr. 
Lowell  on  a  matter  of  business.  Would  he  that 
night  dine  with  Mr.  Lowell?  He  would.  And 
might  he  suggest  that  they  dine  at  Pavoni's  ?  He 
had  a  special  reason  for  going  there,  and  the  din 
ner  would  cost  only  three  and  six. 

"That's  reason  enough!"  Sam  told  him. 

"And  don't  forget,"  said  Polly  when,  for  the 
fifth  time,  Sam  rose  to  go,  "that  after  your  dinner 
you  are  to  look  for  me  at  the  Duchess  of  Deptford's 
dance.  I  asked  her  for  a  card  and  you  will  find 
it  at  your  lodgings.  Everybody  will  be  there;  but 
it  is  a  big  place — full  of  dark  corners  where  we 
can  hide." 

"Don't  hide  until  I  arrive,"  said  Sam.  "I  shall 
be  very  late,  as  I  shall  have  to  walk.  After  I  pay 
for  Forsythe's  dinner  and  for  white  gloves  for  your 
dance  I  shall  not  be  in  a  position  to  hire  a  taxi. 
But  maybe  I  shall  bring  good  news.  Maybe 

190 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

Forsythe  will  give  me  the  job.     If  he  does  we  will 
celebrate  in  champagne." 

"You  will  let  me  at  least  pay  for  the  cham 
pagne?"  begged  Polly. 

"No,"  said  Sam  firmly — "the  duchess  will 
furnish  that." 

When  Sam  reached  his  lodgings  in  Russell 
Square,  which  he  approached  with  considerable 
trepidation,  he  found  Mrs.  Wroxton  awaiting  him. 
But  her  attitude  no  longer  was  hostile.  On  the 
contrary,  as  she  handed  him  a  large,  square  en 
velope,  decorated  with  the  strawberry  leaves  of  a 
duke,  her  manner  was  humble. 

Sam  opened  the  envelope  and,  with  apparent 
carelessness,  stuck  it  over  the  fireplace. 

"About  that  back  rent,"  he  said;  "I  have 
cabled  for  money,  and  as  soon " 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Wroxton.  "I  read  the 
cable."  She  was  reading  the  card  of  invitation 
also.  "There's  no  hurry,  sir,"  protested  Mrs. 
Wroxton.  "Any  of  my  young  gentlemen  who  is 
made  welcome  at  Deptford  House  is  made  wel 
come  here!" 

"Credit,  Mrs.  Wroxton,"  observed  Sam,  "is 
better  than  cash.  If  you  have  only  cash  you 
spend  it  and  nothing  remains.  But  with  credit 

you  can  continue  indefinitely  to — to " 

191 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"So  you  can!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wroxton  en 
thusiastically.  "Stay  as  long  as  you  like,  Mr. 
Lowell." 

At  Pavoni's  Sam  found  Forsythe  already  seated 
and,  with  evident  interest,  observing  the  scene  of 
gayety  before  him.  The  place  was  new  to  Sam, 
and  after  the  darkness  and  snow  of  the  streets  it 
appeared  both  cheerful  and  resplendent.  It  was 
brilliantly  lighted;  a  ceiling  of  gay  panels  picked 
out  with  gold,  and  red  plush  sofas,  backed  against 
walls  hung  with  mirrors  and  faced  by  rows  of 
marble-topped  tables,  gave  it  an  air  of  the  Con 
tinent. 

Sam  surrendered  his  hat  and  coat  to  the  waiter. 
The  hat  was  a  soft  Alpine  one  of  green  felt.  The 
waiter  hung  it  where  Sam  could  see  it,  on  one  of 
many  hooks  that  encircled  a  gilded  pillar. 

After  two  courses  had  been  served  Forsythe 
said: 

"I  hope  you  don't  object  to  this  place.  I  had  a 
special  reason  for  wishing  to  be  here  on  this  par 
ticular  night.  I  wanted  to  be  in  at  the  death!" 

"Whose  death?"  asked  Sam.  "Is  the  dinner  as 
bad  as  that?" 

Forsythe  leaned  back  against  the  mirror  behind 
them  and,  bringing  his  shoulder  close  to  Sam's, 
spoke  in  a  whisper. 

192 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"As  you  know,"  he  said,  "to-day  the  delegates 
sign  the  Treaty  of  London.  It  still  must  receive 
the  signatures  of  the  Sultan  and  the  three 
kings;  and  they  will  sign  it.  But  until  they  do, 
what  the  terms  of  the  treaty  are  no  one  can  find 
out." 

"I'll  bet  the  Times  finds  out!"  said  Sam. 

"That's  it!"  returned  Forsythe.  "Hertz,  the 
man  who  is  supposed  to  be  selling  the  secrets  of 
the  conference  to  the  Times,  dines  here.  To-night 
is  his  last  chance.  If  to-night  he  can  slip  the 
Times  a  copy  of  the  Treaty  of  London  without 
being  caught,  and  the  Times  has  the  courage  to 
publish  it,  it  will  be  the  biggest  newspaper  sensa 
tion  of  modern  times;  and  it  will  either  cause  a 
financial  panic  all  over  Europe — or  prevent  one. 
The  man  they  suspect  is  facing  us.  Don't  look 
now,  but  in  a  minute  you  will  see  him  sitting  alone 
at  a  table  on  the  right  of  the  middle  pillar.  The 
people  at  the  tables  nearest  him — even  the  women 
— are  detectives.  His  waiter  is  in  the  employ  of 
Scotland  Yard.  The  maitre  d'hotel,  whom  you 
will  see  always  hovering  round  his  table,  is  a  police 
agent  lent  by  Bulgaria.  For  the  Allies  are  even 
more  anxious  to  stop  the  leak  than  we  are.  We 
are  interested  only  as  their  hosts;  with  them  it  is 
a  matter  of  national  life  or  death.  A  week  ago 

193 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

one  of  our  own  inspectors  tipped  me  off  to  what  is 
going  on,  and  every  night  since  then  I've  dined 
here,  hoping  to  see  something  suspicious." 

"Have  you?"  asked  Sam. 

"Only  this,"  whispered  Forsythe — "on  four 
different  nights  I've  recognized  men  I  know  are 
on  the  staff  of  the  Times,  and  on  the  other  nights 
men  I  don't  know  may  have  been  here.  But  after 
all  that  proves  nothing,  for  this  place  is  a  resort 
of  newspaper  writers  and  editors — and  the  Times 
men's  being  here  may  have  been  only  a  coinci 
dence." 

"And  Hertz?"  asked  Sam — "what  does  he  do?" 

The  Englishman  exclaimed  with  irritation. 

"Just  what  you  see  him  doing  now!"  he  pro 
tested.  "He  eats  his  dinner!  Look  at  him!"  he 
commanded.  "Of  all  in  the  room  he's  the  least 
concerned." 

Sam  looked  and  saw  the  suspected  Adolf  Hertz 
dangling  a  mass  of  macaroni  on  the  end  of  his  fork- 
Sam  watched  him  until  it  disappeared. 

"Maybe  that's  a  signal!"  suggested  Sam. 
"Maybe  everything  he  does  is  part  of  a  cipher 
code!  He  gives  the  signals  and  the  Times  men 
read  them  and  write  them  down." 

"A  man  would  have  a  fine  chance  to  write  any 
thing  down  in  this  room!"  said  Forsythe. 

194 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"But  maybe,"  persisted  Sam,  "when  he  makes 
those  strange  movements  with  his  lips  he  is  talk 
ing  to  a  confederate  who  can  read  the  lip  language. 
The  confederate  writes  it  down  at  the  office 
and " 

"Fantastic  and  extremely  improbable!"  com 
mented  Forsythe.  "But,  nevertheless,  the  fact 
remains,  the  fellow  does  communicate  with  some 
one  from  the  Times;  and  the  police  are  positive  he 
does  it  here  and  that  he  is  doing  it  now!" 

The  problem  that  so  greatly  disturbed  his  friend 
would  have  more  deeply  interested  Sam  had  the 
solving  of  his  own  trouble  been  less  imperative. 
That  alone  filled  his  mind.  And  when  the  coffee 
was  served  and  the  cigars  lit,  without  beating 
about  the  bush  Sam  asked  Forsythe  bluntly  if  on 
his  paper  a  rising  and  impecunious  genius  could 
find  a  place.  With  even  less  beating  about  the 
bush  Forsythe  assured  him  he  could  not.  The 
answer  was  final,  and  the  disappointment  was  so 
keen  that  Sam  soon  begged  his  friend  to  excuse 
him,  paid  his  bill,  and  rose  to  depart. 

"Better  wait!"  urged  Forsythe.  "You'll  find 
nothing  so  good  out  at  a  music-hall.  This  is 
Houdini  getting  out  of  his  handcuffs  before  an 
audience  entirely  composed  of  policemen." 

Sam  shook  his  head  gloomily. 
195 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

"I  have  a  few  handcuffs  of  my  own  to  get  rid 
of,"  he  said,  "and  it  makes  me  poor  company." 

He  bade  his  friend  good  night  and,  picking  his 
way  among  the  tables,  moved  toward  the  pillar  on 
which  the  waiter  had  hung  his  hat.  The  pillar 
was  the  one  beside  which  Hertz  was  sitting,  and  as 
Sam  approached  the  man  he  satisfied  his  curiosity 
by  a  long  look.  Under  the  glance  Hertz  lowered 
his  eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  his  newspaper.  Sam 
retrieved  his  hat  and  left  the  restaurant. 

His  mind  immediately  was  overcast.  He  re 
membered  his  disappointment  and  that  the  part 
ing  between  himself  and  Polly  was  now  inevitable. 
Without  considering  his  direction  he  turned  to 
ward  Charing  Cross  Road.  But  he  was  not  long 
allowed  to  meditate  undisturbed. 

He  had  only  crossed  the  little  street  that  runs 
beside  the  restaurant  and  passed  into  the  shadow 
of  the  National  Gallery  when,  at  the  base  of  the 
Irving  Memorial,  from  each  side  he  was  fiercely 
attacked.  A  young  man  of  eminently  respectable 
appearance  kicked  his  legs  from  under  him,  and 
another  of  equally  impeccable  exterior  made  an 
honest  effort  to  knock  off  his  head. 

Sam  plunged  heavily  to  the  sidewalk.  As  he 
sprawled  forward  his  hat  fell  under  him  and  in  his 
struggle  to  rise  was  hidden  by  the  skirts  of  his 

196 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

greatcoat.  That,  also,  he  had  fallen  heavily  upon 
his  hat  with  both  knees  Sam  did  not  know.  The 
strange  actions  of  his  assailants  enlightened  him. 
To  his  surprise,  instead  of  continuing  their  assault 
or  attempting  a  raid  upon  his  pockets,  he  found 
them  engaged  solely  in  tugging  at  the  hat.  And 
so  preoccupied  were  they  in  this  that,  though  still 
on  his  knees,  Sam  was  able  to  land  some  lusty 
blows  before  a  rush  of  feet  caused  the  young  men 
to  leap  to  their  own  and,  pursued  by  several  burly 
forms,  disappear  in  the  heart  of  the  traffic. 

Sam  rose  and  stood  unsteadily.  He  found  him 
self  surrounded  by  all  of  those  who  but  a  moment 
before  he  had  left  contentedly  dining  at  Pavoni's. 
In  an  excited  circle  waiters  and  patrons  of  the 
restaurant,  both  men  and  women,  stood  in  the 
falling  snow,  bareheaded,  coatless,  and  cloakless, 
staring  at  him.  Forsythe  pushed  them  aside  and 
took  Sam  by  the  arm. 

"What  happened?"  demanded  Sam. 

"You  ought  to  know,"  protested  Forsythe. 
"You  started  it!  The  moment  you  left  the  res 
taurant  two  men  grabbed  their  hats  and  jumped 
after  you;  a  dozen  other  men,  without  waiting  for 
hats,  jumped  after  them.  The  rest  of  us  got  out 
just  as  the  two  men  and  the  detectives  dived  into 
the  traffic." 

197 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

A  big  man,  with  an  air  of  authority,  drew  Sam 
to  one  side. 

"Did  they  take  anything  from  you,  sir?"  he 
asked. 

"I've  nothing  they  could  take,"  said  Sam. 
"And  they  didn't  try  to  find  out.  They  just 
knocked  me  down." 

Forsythe  turned  to  the  big  man. 

"This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine,  inspector," 
he  said.  "He  is  a  stranger  in  town  and  was  at 
Pavoni's  only  by  accident." 

"We  might  need  his  testimony,"  suggested  the 
official. 

Sam  gave  his  card  to  the  inspector  and  then 
sought  refuge  in  a  taxicab.  For  the  second  time 
he  bade  his  friend  good  night. 

"And  when  next  we  dine,"  he  called  to  him  in 
parting,  "choose  a  restaurant  where  the  detective 
service  is  quicker!" 

Three  hours  later,  brushed  and  repaired  by  Mrs. 
Wroxton,  and  again  resplendent,  Sam  sat  in  a  se 
cluded  corner  of  Deptford  House  and  bade  Polly  a 
long  farewell.  It  was  especially  long  owing  to  the 
unusual  number  of  interruptions;  for  it  was  evi 
dent  that  Polly  had  many  friends  in  London,  and 
that  not  to  know  the  Richest  One  in  America  and 
her  absurd  mother,  and  the  pompous,  self-satisfied 

198 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

father,  argued  oneself  nobody.  But  finally  the 
duchess  carried  Polly  off  to  sup  with  her;  and  as 
the  duchess  did  not  include  Sam  in  her  invitation 
— at  least  not  in  such  a  way  that  any  one  could 
notice  it — Sam  said  good  night — but  not  before  he 
had  arranged  a  meeting  with  Polly  for  eleven  that 
same  morning.  If  it  was  clear,  the  meeting  was 
to  be  at  the  duck  pond  in  St.  James's  Park;  if  it 
snowed,  at  the  National  Gallery  in  front  of  the 
Age  of  Innocence. 

After  robbing  the  duchess  of  three  suppers,  Sam 
descended  to  the  hall  and  from  an  attendant  re 
ceived  his  coat  and  hat,  which  latter  the  attend 
ant  offered  him  with  the  inside  of  the  hat  show 
ing.  Sam  saw  in  it  the  trademark  of  a  foreign 
maker. 

"That's  not  my  hat,"  said  Sam. 

The  man  expressed  polite  disbelief. 

"I  found  it  rolled  up  in  the  pocket  of  your  great 
coat,  sir,"  he  protested. 

The  words  reminded  Sam  that  on  arriving  at 
Deptford  House  he  had  twisted  the  hat  into  a  roll 
and  stuffed  it  into  his  overcoat  pocket. 

"Quite  right,"  said  Sam.  But  it  was  not  his 
hat;  and  with  some  hope  of  still  recovering  his 
property  he  made  way  for  other  departing  guests 
and  at  one  side  waited. 

199 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

For  some  clew  to  the  person  he  believed  was 
now  wearing  his  hat,  Sam  examined  the  one  in  his 
hand.  Just  showing  above  the  inside  band  was 
something  white.  Thinking  it  might  be  the  card 
of  the  owner,  Sam  removed  it.  It  was  not  a  card, 
but  a  long  sheet  of  thin  paper,  covered  with  type 
writing,  and  many  times  folded.  Sam  read  the 
opening  paragraph.  Then  he  backed  suddenly 
toward  a  great  chair  of  gold  and  velvet,  and  fell 
into  it. 

He  was  conscious  the  attendants  in  pink  stock 
ings  were  regarding  him  askance;  that,  as  they 
waited  in  the  draughty  hall  for  cars  and  taxis,  the 
noble  lords  in  stars  and  ribbons,  the  noble  ladies 
in  tiaras  and  showing  much-furlined  galoshes,  were 
discussing  his  strange  appearance.  They  might 
well  believe  the  youth  was  ill;  they  might  easily 
have  considered  him  intoxicated.  Outside  rose 
the  voices  of  servants  and  police  calling  the  car 
riages.  Inside  other  servants  echoed  them. 

"The  Duchess  of  Sutherland's  car!"  they 
chanted.  "Mrs.  Trevor  Hill's  carriage!  The 
French  ambassador's  carriage!  Baron  Hauss- 
mann's  car!" 

Like  one  emerging  from  a  trance,  Sam  sprang 
upright.  A  little  fat  man,  with  mild  blue  eyes  and 
curly  red  hair,  was  shyly  and  with  murmured 

200 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

apologies  pushing  toward  the  exit.  Before  he 
gained  it  Sam  had  wriggled  a  way  to  his  elbow. 

"Baron  Haussmann!"  he  stammered.  "I  must 
speak  to  you.  It's  a  matter  of  gravest  importance. 
Send  away  your  car,"  he  begged,  "and  give  me  five 
minutes." 

The  eyes  of  the  little  fat  man  opened  wide  in 
surprise,  almost  in  alarm.  He  stared  at  Sam  re 
provingly. 

"Impossible!"  he  murmured.  "I — I  do  not 
know  you." 

"This  is  a  letter  of  introduction,"  said  Sam. 
Into  the  unwilling  fingers  of  the  banker  he  thrust 
the  folded  paper.  Bending  over  him,  he  whis 
pered  in  his  ear.  "That,"  said  Sam,  "is  the 
Treaty  of  London!" 

The  alarm  of  Baron  Haussmann  increased  to  a 
panic. 

"Impossible!"  he  gasped.  And,  with  reproach, 
he  repeated:  "I  do  not  know  you,  sir!  I  do  not 
know  you!" 

At  that  moment,  towering  above  the  crush,  ap 
peared  the  tall  figure  of  Senator  Seward.  The 
rich  man  of  the  New  World  and  the  rich  man  of 
Europe  knew  each  other  only  by  sight.  But,  upon 
seeing  Sam  in  earnest  converse  with  the  great 
banker,  the  senator  believed  that  without  appear- 

2OI 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

ing  to  seek  it  he  might  through  Sam  effect  a  meet 
ing.  With  a  hearty  slap  on  the  shoulder  he  greeted 
his  fellow  countryman. 

"Halloo,  Sam!"  he  cried  genially.  "You  walk 
ing  home  with  me?" 

Sam  did  not  even  turn  his  head. 

"No!"  he  snapped.     "I'm  busy.     Go  'way!" 

Crimson,  the  senator  disappeared.  Baron 
Haussmann  regarded  the  young  stranger  with 
amazed  interest. 

"You  know  him!"  he  protested.  "He  called 
you  Sam!" 

"Know  him?"  cried  Sam  impatiently.  "I've 
got  to  know  him!  He's  going  to  be  my  father-in- 
law." 

The  fingers  of  the  rich  man  clutched  the  folded 
paper  as  the  claws  of  a  parrot  cling  to  the  bars  of 
his  cage.  He  let  his  sable  coat  slip  into  the  hands 
of  a  servant;  he  turned  back  toward  the  marble 
staircase. 

"Come!"  he  commanded. 

Sam  led  him  to  the  secluded  corner  Polly  and  he 
had  left  vacant  and  told  his  story. 

"So,  it  is  evident,"  concluded  Sam,  "that  each 
night  some  one  in  the  service  of  the  Times  dined  at 
Pavoni's,  and  that  his  hat  was  the  same  sort  of 
hat  as  the  one  worn  by  Hertz;  and  each  night, 

202 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

inside  the  lining  of  his  hat,  Hertz  hid  the  report 
of  that  day's  proceedings.  And  when  the  Times 
man  left  the  restaurant  he  exchanged  hats  with 
Hertz.  But  to-night — I  got  Hertz's  hat  and  with 
it  the  treaty!" 

In  perplexity  the  blue  eyes  of  the  little  great 
man  frowned. 

"It  is  a  remarkable  story,"  he  said. 

"You  mean  you  don't  believe  me!"  retorted 
Sam.  "If  I  had  financial  standing — if  I  had 
credit — if  I  were  not  a  stranger — you  would  not 
hesitate." 

Baron  Haussmann  neither  agreed  nor  contra 
dicted.  He  made  a  polite  and  deprecatory  ges 
ture.  Still  in  doubt,  he  stared  at  the  piece  of  white 
paper.  Still  deep  in  thought,  he  twisted  and 
creased  between  his  fingers  the  Treaty  of  Lon 
don! 

Returning  with  the  duchess  from  supper,  Polly 
caught  sight  of  Sam  and,  with  a  happy  laugh,  ran 
toward  him.  Seeing  he  was  not  alone,  she  halted 
and  waved  her  hand. 

"Don't  forget!"  she  called.     "At  eleven!" 

She  made  a  sweet  and  lovely  picture.  Sam  rose 
and  bowed. 

"I'll  be  there  at  ten,"  he  answered. 

With  his  mild  blue  eyes  the  baron  followed  Polly 
203 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

until  she  had  disappeared.     Then  he  turned  and 
smiled  at  Sam. 

"Permit  me,"  he  said,  "to  offer  you  my  felic 
itations.  Your  young  lady  is  very  beautiful 
and  very  good."  Sam  bowed  his  head.  "If  she 
trusts  you,"  murmured  the  baron,  "I  think  I  can 
trust  you  too." 

"How  wonderful  is  credit!"  exclaimed  Sam. 
"I  was  just  saying  so  to  my  landlady.  If  you 
have  only  cash  you  spend  it  and  nothing  remains. 
But  with  credit  you  can " 

"How  much,"  interrupted  the  banker,  "do  you 
want  for  this?" 

Sam  returned  briskly  to  the  business  of  the 
moment. 

"To  be  your  partner,"  he  said — "to  get  half  of 
what  you  make  out  of  it." 

The  astonished  eyes  of  the  baron  were  large  with 
wonder.  Again  he  reproved  Sam. 

"What  I  shall  make  out  of  it?"  he  demanded 
incredulously.  "Do  you  know  how  much  I  shall 
make  out  of  it?" 

"I  cannot  even  guess,"  said  Sam;  "but  I  want 
half." 

The  baron  smiled  tolerantly. 

"And  how,"  he  asked,  "could  you  possibly 
know  what  I  give  you  is  really  half?" 

204 


The  God  of  Coincidence 

In  his  turn,  Sam  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

"  Your  credit,"  said  Sam,  "is  good!" 

That  morning,  after  the  walk  in  St.  James's 
Park,  when  Sam  returned  with  Polly  to  Claridge's, 
they  encountered  her  father  in  the  hall.  Mindful 
of  the  affront  of  the  night  before,  he  greeted  Sam 
only  with  a  scowl. 

"Senator,"  cried  Sam  happily,  "you  must  be 
the  first  to  hear  the  news!  Polly  and  I  are  going 
into  partnership.  We  are  to  be  married." 

This  time  Senator  Seward  did  not  trouble  him 
self  even  to  tell  Sam  he  was  an  ass.  He  merely 
grinned  cynically. 

"Is  that  all  your  news?"  he  demanded  with 
sarcasm. 

"No,"  said  Sam — "I  am  going  into  partnership 
with  Baron  Haussmann  too!" 


205 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF 
COBRE 


THE  BURIED  TREASURE  OF  COBRE 

YOUNG  EVERETT  at  last  was  a  minister 
plenipotentiary.  In  London  as  third  sec 
retary  he  had  splashed  around  in  the  rain  to  find 
the  ambassador's  carriage.  In  Rome  as  a  second 
secretary  he  had  served  as  a  clearing-house  for 
the  Embassy's  visiting-cards;  and  in  Madrid  as 
first  secretary  he  had  acted  as  interpreter  for  a 
minister  who,  though  valuable  as  a  national  chair 
man,  had  much  to  learn  of  even  his  own  language. 
But  although  surrounded  by  all  the  wonders  and 
delights  of  Europe,  although  he  walked,  talked, 
wined,  and  dined  with  statesmen  and  court  beau 
ties,  Everett  was  not  happy.  He  was  never  his 
own  master.  Always  he  answered  the  button 
pressed  by  the  man  higher  up.  Always  over  him 
loomed  his  chief;  always,  for  his  diligence  and 
zeal,  his  chief  received  credit. 

As  His  Majesty's  naval  attache  put  it  sympa 
thetically,  "Better  be  a  top-side  man  on  a  sam 
pan  than  First  LufF  on  the  Dreadnought.  Don't 
be  another  man's  right  hand.  Be  your  own  right 

209 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

hand."  Accordingly  when  the  State  Department 
offered  to  make  him  minister  to  the  Republic 
of  Amapala,  Everett  gladly  deserted  the  flesh- 
pots  of  Europe,  and,  on  muleback  over  trails  in 
the  living  rock,  through  mountain  torrents  that 
had  never  known  the  shadow  of  a  bridge,  through 
swamp  and  jungle,  rode  sunburnt  and  saddle- 
sore  into  his  inheritance. 

When  giving  him  his  farewell  instructions,  the 
Secretary  of  State  had  not  attempted  to  deceive 
him. 

"Of  all  the  smaller  republics  of  Central  Amer 
ica,"  he  frankly  told  him,  "Amapala  is  the  least 
desirable,  least  civilized,  least  acceptable.  It 
offers  an  ambitious  young  diplomat  no  chance. 
But  once  a  minister,  always  a  minister.  Having 
lifted  you  out  of  the  secretary  class  we  can't  de 
mote  you.  Your  days  of  deciphering  cablegrams 
are  over,  and  if  you  don't  die  of  fever,  of  boredom, 
or  brandy,  call  us  up  in  a  year  or  two  and  we  will 
see  what  we  can  do." 

Everett  regarded  the  Secretary  blankly. 

"Has  the  Department  no  interest  in  Amapala?*' 
he  begged.  "Is  there  nothing  you  want  there?" 

"There  is  one  thing  we  very  much  want,"  re 
turned  the  Secretary,  "but  we  can't  get  it.  We 
want  a  treaty  to  extradite  criminals." 

210 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

The  young  minister  laughed  confidently. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed,  "that  should  be  easy." 

The  Secretary  smiled. 

"You  have  our  full  permission  to  get  it,"  he 
said.  "This  department,"  he  explained,  "under 
three  administrations  has  instructed  four  minis 
ters  to  arrange  such  a  treaty.  The  Bankers'  Asso 
ciation  wants  it;  the  Merchants'  Protective  Al 
liance  wants  it.  Amapala  is  the  only  place  within 
striking  distance  of  our  country  where  a  fugitive 
is  safe.  It  is  the  only  place  where  a  dishonest 
cashier,  swindler,  or  felon  can  find  refuge.  Some 
times  it  seems  almost  as  though  when  a  man 
planned  a  crime  he  timed  it  exactly  so  as  to  catch 
the  boat  for  Amapala.  And,  once  there,  we  can't 
lay  our  hands  on  him;  and,  what's  more,  we  can't 
lay  our  hands  on  the  money  he  takes  with  him. 
I  have  no  right  to  make  a  promise,"  said  the  great 
man,  "but  the  day  that  treaty  is  signed  you  can 
sail  for  a  legation  in  Europe.  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

"So  clear,  sir,"  cried  Everett,  laughing,  "that 
if  I  don't  arrange  that  treaty  I  will  remain  in 
Amapala  until  I  do." 

"Four  of  your  predecessors,"  remarked  the  Sec 
retary,  "made  exactly  the  same  promise,  but  none 
of  them  got  us  the  treaty." 

211 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"Probably  none  of  them  remained  in  Amapala, 
either,"  retorted  Everett. 

"Two  did,"  corrected  the  Secretary;  "as  you 
ride  into  Camaguay  you  see  their  tombstones." 

Everett  found  the  nine-day  mule-ride  from  the 
coast  to  the  capital  arduous,  but  full  of  interest. 
After  a  week  at  his  post  he  appreciated  that  until 
he  left  it  and  made  the  return  journey  nothing  of 
equal  interest  was  again  likely  to  occur.  For  life 
in  Camaguay,  the  capital  of  Amapala,  proved  to 
be  one  long  dreamless  slumber.  In  the  morning 
each  of  the  inhabitants  engaged  in  a  struggle  to 
get  awake;  after  the  second  breakfast  he  ceased 
struggling,  and  for  a  siesta  sank  into  his  hammock. 
After  dinner,  at  nine  o'clock,  he  was  prepared  to 
sleep  in  earnest,  and  went  to  bed.  The  official 
life  as  explained  to  Everett  by  Garland,  the  Amer 
ican  consul,  was  equally  monotonous.  When 
President  Mendoza  was  not  in  the  mountains 
deer-hunting,  or  suppressing  a  revolution,  each 
Sunday  he  invited  the  American  minister  to  dine 
at  the  palace.  In  return  His  Excellency  expected 
once  a  week  to  be  invited  to  breakfast  with  the 
minister.  He  preferred  that  the  activities  of  that 
gentleman  should  go  no  further.  Life  in  the  dip 
lomatic  circle  was  even  less  strenuous.  Everett 
was  the  doyen  of  the  diplomatic  corps  because  he 

212 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

was  the  only  diplomat.  All  other  countries  were 
represented  by  consuls  who  were  commission  mer 
chants  and  shopkeepers.  They  were  delighted  at 
having  among  them  a  minister  plenipotentiary. 
When  he  took  pity  on  them  and  invited  them  to 
tea,  which  invitations  he  delivered  in  person  to 
each  consul  at  the  door  of  each  shop,  the  entire 
diplomatic  corps,  as  the  consuls  were  pleased  to 
describe  themselves,  put  up  the  shutters,  put  on 
their  official  full-dress  uniforms  and  arrived  in  a 
body. 

The  first  week  at  his  post  Everett  spent  in  read 
ing  the  archives  of  the  legation.  They  were  most 
discouraging.  He  found  that  for  the  sixteen  years 
prior  to  his  arrival  the  only  events  reported  to  the 
department  by  his  predecessors  were  revolutions 
and  the  refusals  of  successive  presidents  to  con 
sent  to  a  treaty  of  extradition.  On  that  point 
all  Amapalans  were  in  accord.  Though  over-night 
the  government  changed  hands,  though  presidents 
gave  way  to  dictators,  and  dictators  to  military 
governors,  the  national  policy  of  Amapala  con 
tinued  to  be  "No  extradition!"  The  ill  success 
of  those  who  had  preceded  him  appalled  Everett. 
He  had  promised  himself  by  a  brilliant  assault 
to  secure  the  treaty  and  claim  the  legation  in 
Europe.  But  the  record  of  sixteen  years  of  fail- 

213 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

ure  caused  him  to  alter  his  strategy.  Instead 
of  an  attack  he  prepared  for  a  siege.  He  un 
packed  his  books,  placed  the  portrait  of  his  own 
President  over  the  office  desk,  and  proceeded  to 
make  friends  with  his  fellow  exiles. 

Of  the  foreign  colony  in  Camaguay  some  fifty 
were  Americans,  and  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
they  were  as  hopelessly  separated  as  the  crew  of 
a  light-ship.  From  the  Pacific  they  were  cut  off" 
by  the  Cordilleras,  from  the  Caribbean  by  a  nine- 
day  mule-ride.  To  the  north  and  south,  jungle, 
forests,  swamp-lands,  and  mountains  hemmed 
them  in. 

Of  the  fifty  Americans,  one-half  were  constantly 
on  the  trail;  riding  to  the  coast  to  visit  their  plan 
tations,  or  into  the  mountains  to  inspect  their 
mines.  When  Everett  arrived,  of  those  absent 
the  two  most  important  were  Chester  Ward  and 
Colonel  Goddard.  Indeed,  so  important  were 
these  gentlemen  that  Everett  was  made  to  under 
stand  that,  until  they  approved,  his  recognition 
as  the  American  minister  was  in  a  manner  tem 
porary. 

Chester  Ward,  or  "Chet,"  as  the  exiles  referred 
to  him,  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Amapala, 
and  was  engaged  in  exploring  the  ruins  of  the 
lost  city  of  Cobre,  which  was  a  one-hour  ride  from 

214 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

the  capital.  Ward  possessed  the  exclusive  right 
to  excavate  that  buried  city  and  had  held  it 
against  all  comers.  The  offers  of  American  uni 
versities,  of  archaeological  and  geographical  so 
cieties  that  also  wished  to  dig  up  the  ancient 
city  and  decipher  the  hieroglyphs  on  her  walls, 
were  met  with  a  curt  rebuff.  That  work,  the 
government  of  Amapala  would  reply,  was  in  the 
trained  hands  of  Senor  Chester  Ward.  In  his 
chosen  effort  the  government  would  not  disturb 
him,  nor  would  it  permit  others  coming  in  at  the 
eleventh  hour  to  rob  him  of  his  glory.  This 
Everett  learned  from  the  consul,  Garland. 

"Ward  and  Colonel  Goddard,"  the  consul  ex 
plained,  "are  two  of  five  countrymen  of  ours  who 
run  the  American  colony,  and,  some  say,  run  the 
government.  The  others  are  Mellen,  who  has  the 
asphalt  monopoly;  Jackson,  who  is  building  the 
railroads,  and  Major  Feiberger,  of  the  San  Jose 
silver-mines.  They  hold  monopolies  and  pay 
President  Mendoza  ten  per  cent  of  the  earnings, 
and,  on  the  side,  help  him  run  the  country.  Of 
the  five,  the  Amapalans  love  Goddard  best,  be 
cause  he's  not  trying  to  rob  them.  Instead,  he 
wants  to  boost  Amapala.  His  ideas  are  perfectly 
impracticable,  but  he  doesn't  know  that,  and 
neither  do  they.  He's  a  kind  of  Colonel  Mulberry 

215 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Sellers  and  a  Southerner.  Not  the  professional 
sort,  that  fight  elevator-boys  because  they're 
colored,  and  let  off  rebel  yells  in  rathskellers  when 
a  Hungarian  band  plays  'Dixie,'  but  the  sort  you 
read  about  and  so  seldom  see.  He  was  once  State 
Treasurer  of  Alabama." 

"What's  he  doing  down  here?"  asked  the  min 
ister. 

"Never  the  same  thing  two  months  together," 
the  consul  told  him;  "railroads,  mines,  rubber. 
He  says  all  Amapala  needs  is  developing." 

As  men  who  can  see  a  joke  even  when  it  is 
against  themselves,  the  two  exiles  smiled  ruefully. 

"That's  all  it  needs,"  said  Everett. 

For  a  moment  the  consul  regarded  him  thought 
fully. 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you,"  he  said,  "you'll 
learn  it  soon  enough  anyway,  that  the  men  who 
will  keep  you  from  getting  your  treaty  are  these 
five,  especially  old  man  Goddard  and  Ward." 

Everett  exclaimed  indignantly: 

"Why  should  they  interfere?" 

"Because,"  explained  the  consul,  "they  are 
fugitives  from  justice,  and  they  don't  want  to  go 
home.  Ward  is  wanted  for  forgery  or  some  polite 
crime,  I  don't  know  which.  And  Colonel  God 
dard  for  appropriating  the  State  funds  of  Alabama. 

216 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Ward  knew  what  he  was  doing  and  made  a  lot 
out  of  it.  He's  still  rich.  No  one's  weeping  over 
him.  Goddard's  case  is  different.  He  was  im 
posed  on  and  made  a  catspaw.  When  he  was 
State  treasurer  the  men  who  appointed  him  came 
to  him  one  night  and  said  they  must  have  some  of 
the  State's  funds  to  show  a  bank  examiner  in  the 
morning.  They  appealed  to  him  on  the  ground 
of  friendship,  as  the  men  who'd  given  him  his  job. 
They  would  return  the  money  the  next  evening. 
Goddard  believed  they  would.  They  didn't,  and 
when  some  one  called  for  a  show-down  the  colonel 
was  shy  about  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  the  State's 
money.  He  lost  his  head,  took  the  boat  out  of 
Mobile  to  Porto  Cortez,  and  hid  here.  He's  been 
here  twenty  years  and  all  the  Amapalans  love 
him.  He's  the  adopted  father  of  their  country. 
They're  so  afraid  he'll  be  taken  back  and  punished 
that  they'll  never  consent  to  an  extradition  treaty 
even  if  the  other  Americans,  Mellen,  Jackson, 
and  Feiberger,  weren't  paying  them  big  money 
not  to  consent.  President  Mendoza  himself  told 
me  that  as  long  as  Colonel  Goddard  honored  his 
country  by  remaining  in  it,  he  was  his  guest,  and 
he  would  never  agree  to  extradition.  'I  could  as 
soon/  he  said,  'sign  his  death-warrant.": 
Everett  grinned  dismally. 
217 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"That's  rather  nice  of  them,"  he  said,  "but  it's 
hard  on  me.  But,"  he  demanded,  "why  Ward? 
What  has  he  done  for  Amapala?  Is  it  because 
of  Cobre,  because  of  his  services  as  an  archae 
ologist  ? " 

The  consul  glanced  around  the  patio  and 
dragged  his  chair  nearer  to  Everett. 

"This  is  my  own  dope,"  he  whispered;  "it 
may  be  wrong.  Anyway,  it's  only  for  your  pri 
vate  information." 

He  waited  until,  with  a  smile,  Everett  agreed  to 
secrecy. 

"Chet  Ward,"  protested  the  consul,  "is  no 
more  an  archaeologist  than  I  am!  He  talks  well 
about  Cobre,  and  he  ought  to,  because  every  word 
he  speaks  is  cribbed  straight  from  Hauptmann's 
monograph,  published  in  1855.  And  he  has  dug 
up  something  at  Cobre;  something  worth  a  darned 
sight  more  than  stone  monkeys  and  carved  altars. 
But  his  explorations  are  a  bluff.  They're  a  blind 
to  cover  up  what  he's  really  after;  what  I  think 
he's  found!" 

As  though  wishing  to  be  urged,  the  young  man 
paused,  and  Everett  nodded  for  him  to  continue. 
He  was  wondering  whether  life  in  Amapala  might 
not  turn  out  to  be  more  interesting  than  at  first 
it  had  appeared,  or  whether  Garland  was  not  a 
most  charming  liar. 

218 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"Ward  visits  the  ruins  every  month,"  con 
tinued  Garland.  "But  he  takes  with  him  only 
two  mule-drivers  to  cook  and  look  after  the  pack- 
train,  and  he  doesn't  let  even  the  drivers  inside 
the  ruins.  He  remains  at  Cobre  three  or  four 
days  and,  to  make  a  show,  fills  his  saddle-bags 
with  broken  tiles  and  copper  ornaments.  He 
turns  them  over  to  the  government,  and  it  dumps 
them  in  the  back  yard  of  the  palace.  You  can't 
persuade  me  that  he  holds  his  concession  with 
that  junk.  He's  found  something  else  at  Cobre 
and  he  shares  it  with  Mendoza,  and  I  believe  it's 
gold." 

The  minister  smiled  delightedly. 

"What  kind  of  gold?" 

"Maybe  in  the  rough,"  said  the  consul.  "But 
I  prefer  to  think  it's  treasure.  The  place  is  full 
of  secret  chambers,  tombs,  and  passageways  cut 
through  the  rock,  deep  under  the  surface.  I  be 
lieve  Ward  has  stumbled  on  some  vault  where  the 
priests  used  to  hide  their  loot.  I  believe  he's  get 
ting  it  out  bit  by  bit  and  going  shares  with  Men 
doza." 

"If  that  were  so,"  ventured  Everett,  "why 
wouldn't  Mendoza  take  it  all?" 

"Because  Ward,"  explained  the  consul,  "is  the 
only  one  who  knows  where  it  is.  The  ruins  cover 
two  square  miles.  You  might  search  for  years. 

219 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

They  tried  to  follow  and  spy  on  him,  but  Ward 
was  too  clever  for  them.  He  turned  back  at 
once.  If  they  don't  take  what  he  gives,  they 
get  nothing.  So  they  protect  him  from  real  ex 
plorers  and  from  extradition.  The  whole  thing  is 
unfair.  A  real  archaeologist  turned  up  here  a 
month  ago.  He  had  letters  from  the  Smithsonian 
Institute  and  several  big  officials  at  Washington, 
but  do  you  suppose  they  would  let  him  so  much  as 
smell  of  Cobre?  Not  they!  Not  even  when  I 
spoke  for  him  as  consul.  Then  he  appealed  to 
Ward,  and  Ward  turned  him  down  hard.  You 
were  arriving,  so  he's  hung  on  here  hoping  you 
may  have  more  influence.  His  name  is  Peabody; 
he's  a  professor,  but  he's  young  and  full  of  'get 
there,'  and  he  knows  more  about  the  ruins  of 
Cobre  now  than  Ward  does  after  having  them  all 
to  himself  for  two  years.  He's  good  people  and 
I  hope  you'll  help  him." 

Everett  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"If  the  government  has  given  the  concession 
to  him,"  he  pointed  out,  "no  matter  who  Ward 
may  be,  or  what  its  motives  were  for  giving  it  to 
him,  I  can't  ask  it  to  break  its  promise.  As  an 
American  citizen  Ward  is  as  much  entitled  to  my 
help — officially — as  Professor  Peabody,  whatever 
his  standing." 

220 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"Ward's  a  forger,"  protested  Garland,  "a  fugi 
tive  from  justice;  and  Peabody  is  a  scholar  and 
a  gentleman.  I'm  not  keen  about  dead  cities  my 
self — this  one  we're  in  now  is  dead  enough  for  me 
— but  if  civilization  is  demanding  to  know  what 
Cobre  was  like  eight  hundred  years  ago,  civiliza 
tion  is  entitled  to  find  out,  and  Peabody  seems 
the  man  for  the  job.  It's  a  shame  to  turn  him 
down  for  a  gang  of  grafters." 

"Tell  him  to  come  and  talk  to  me,"  said  the 
minister. 

"He  rode  over  to  the  ruins  of  Copan  last  week," 
explained  Garland,  "where  the  Harvard  expedi 
tion  is.  But  he's  coming  back  to-morrow  on  pur 
pose  to  see  you." 

The  consul  had  started  toward  the  door  when 
he  suddenly  returned. 

"And  there's  some  one  else  coming  to  see  you," 
he  said.  "Some  one,"  he  added  anxiously,  "you 
want  to  treat  right.  That's  Monica  Ward.  She's 
Chester  Ward's  sister,  and  you  mustn't  get  her 
mixed  up  with  anything  I  told  you  about  her 
brother.  She's  coming  to  ask  you  to  help  start  a 
Red  Cross  Society.  She  was  a  volunteer  nurse  in 
the  hospital  in  the  last  two  revolutions,  and  what 
she  saw  makes  her  want  to  be  sure  she  won't  see 
it  again.  She's  taught  the  native  ladies  the  'first 

221 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

aid'  drill,  and  they  expect  you  to  be  honorary 
president  of  the  society.  You'd  better  accept." 

Shaking  his  head,  Garland  smiled  pityingly 
upon  the  new  minister. 

"You've  got  a  swell  chance  to  get  your  treaty," 
he  declared.  "Monica  is  another  one  who  will 
prevent  it." 

Everett  sighed  patiently. 

"What,"  he  demanded,  "might  her  particular 
crime  be;  murder,  shoplifting,  treason " 

"If  her  brother  had  to  leave  this  country," 
interrupted  Garland,  "she'd  leave  with  him.  And 
the  people  don't  want  that.  Her  pull  is  the  same 
as  old  man  Goddard's.  Everybody  loves  him 
and  everybody  loves  her.  I  love  her,"  exclaimed 
the  consul  cheerfully;  "the  President  loves  her, 
the  Sisters  in  the  hospital,  the  chain-gang  in  the 
street,  the  washerwomen  in  the  river,  the  palace 
guard,  everybody  in  this  flea-bitten,  God-for 
saken  country  loves  Monica  Ward — and  when  you 
meet  her  you  will,  too." 

Garland  had  again  reached  the  door  to  the 
outer  hall  before  Everett  called  him  back. 

"If  it  is  not  a  leading  question,"  asked  the 
minister,  "what  little  indiscretion  in  your  life 
brought  you  to  Amapala?" 

Garland  grinned  appreciatively. 

222 


'You  mustn't  get  her  mixed  up  with  anything  I  told  you 
about  her  brother" 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"I  know  they  sound  a  queer  lot,"  he  assented, 
"but  when  you  get  to  know  'em,  you  like  'em. 
My  own  trouble,"  he  added,  "was  a  horse.  I 
never  could  see  why  they  made  such  a  fuss  about 
him.  He  was  lame  when  I  took  him." 

Disregarding  Garland's  pleasantry,  for  some 
time  His  Excellency  sat  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  frowning  up  from  the  open  patio 
into  the  hot  cloudless  sky.  On  the  ridge  of  his 
tiled  roof  a  foul  buzzard  blinked  at  him  from  red- 
rimmed  eyes,  across  the  yellow  wall  a  lizard  ran 
for  shelter,  at  his  elbow  a  macaw  compassing  the 
circle  of  its  tin  prison  muttered  dreadful  oaths. 
Outside,  as  the  washerwomen  beat  their  linen 
clubs  upon  the  flat  rocks  of  the  river,  the  hot  stale 
air  was  spanked  with  sharp  reports.  In  Cama- 
guay  theirs  was  the  only  industry,  the  only  sign 
of  cleanliness;  and  recognizing  that  another  shirt 
had  been  thrashed  into  subjection  and  rags,  Ever 
ett  winced.  No  less  visibly  did  his  own  thoughts 
cause  him  to  wince.  Garland  he  had  forgotten, 
and  he  was  sunk  deep  in  self-pity.  His  thoughts 
were  of  London,  with  its  world  politics,  its  splen 
did  traditions,  its  great  and  gracious  ladies;  of 
Paris  in  the  spring  sunshine,  when  he  cantered 
through  the  Bois;  of  Madrid,  with  its  pomp  and 
royalty,  and  the  gray  walls  of  its  galleries  pro- 

223 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

claiming  Murillo  and  Velasquez.  These  things 
he  had  forsaken  because  he  believed  he  was  am 
bitious;  and  behold  into  what  a  cul-de-sac  his 
ambition  had  led  him!  A  comic-opera  country 
that  was  not  comic,  but  dead  and  buried  from  the 
world;  a  savage  people,  unread,  unenlightened, 
unclean;  and  for  society  of  his  countrymen, 
pitiful  derelicts  in  hiding  from  the  law.  In 
his  soul  he  rebelled.  In  words  he  exploded  bit 
terly. 

"This  is  one  hell  of  a  hole,  Garland,"  cried  the 
diplomat.  His  jaws  and  his  eyes  hardened.  "I'm 
going  back  to  Europe.  And  the  only  way  I  can 
go  is  to  get  that  treaty.  I  was  sent  here  to  get 
it.  Those  were  my  orders.  And  I'll  get  it  if  I 
have  to  bribe  them  out  of  my  own  pocket;  if  I 
have  to  outbid  Mr.  Ward,  and  send  him  and  your 
good  Colonel  Goddard  and  all  the  rest  of  the  crew 
to  the  jails  where  they  belong!" 

Garland  heard  him  without  emotion.  From 
long  residence  near  the  equator  he  diagnosed  the 
outbreak  as  a  case  of  tropic  choler,  aggravated  by 
nostalgia  and  fleas. 

"I'll  bet  you  don't,"  he  said. 

"I'll  bet  you  your  passage-money  home," 
shouted  Everett,  "against  my  passage-money  to 
Europe." 

224 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"Done!"  said  Garland.  "How  much  time  do 
you  want — two  years  ? " 

The  diplomat  exclaimed  mockingly: 

"Two  months!" 

"I  win  now,"  said  the  consul.  "I'll  go  home 
and  pack." 

The  next  morning  his  clerk  told  Everett  that 
in  the  outer  office  Monica  Ward  awaited  him. 

Overnight  Everett  had  developed  a  prejudice 
against  Miss  Ward.  What  Garland  had  said  in 
her  favor  had  only  driven  him  the  wrong  way. 
Her  universal  popularity  he  disliked.  He  argued 
that  to  gain  popularity  one  must  concede  and 
capitulate.  He  felt  that  the  sister  of  an  ac 
knowledged  crook,  no  matter  how  innocent  she 
might  be,  were  she  a  sensitive  woman,  would  wish 
to  efface  herself.  And  he  had  found  that,  as  a  rule, 
women  who  worked  in  hospitals  and  organized 
societies  bored  him.  He  did  not  admire  the  mil 
itant,  executive  sister.  He  pictured  Miss  Ward 
as  probably  pretty,  but  with  the  coquettish  ef 
frontery  of  the  village  belle  and  with  the  pushing, 
"good-fellow"  manners  of  the  new  school.  He 
was  prepared  either  to  have  her  slap  him  on  the 
back  or,  from  behind  tilted  eye-glasses,  make  eyes 
at  him.  He  was  sure  she  wore  eye-glasses,  and 
was  large,  plump,  and  Junoesque.  With  reluc- 

225 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

tance  he  entered  the  outer  office.  He  saw,  all  in 
white,  a  girl  so  young  that  she  was  hardly  more 
than  a  child,  but  with  the  tall,  slim  figure  of  a  boy. 
Her  face  was  lovely  as  the  face  of  a  violet,  and  her 
eyes  were  as  shy.  But  shy  not  through  lack  of 
confidence  in  Everett,  nor  in  any  human  being, 
but  in  herself.  They  seemed  to  say,  "I  am  a  very 
unworthy,  somewhat  frightened  young  person; 
but  you,  who  are  so  big  and  generous,  will  over 
look  that,  and  you  are  going  to  be  my  friend. 
Indeed,  I  see  you  are  my  friend." 

Everett  stood  quite  still.     He  nodded  gloomily. 

"Garland  was  right,"  he  exclaimed;   "I  do!" 

The  young  lady  was  plainly  distressed. 

"Do  what?"  she  stammered. 

"Some  day  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  young  man. 
"Yes,"  he  added,  without  shame,  "I  am  afraid  I 
will."  He  bowed  her  into  the  inner  office. 

"I  am  sorry,"  apologized  Monica,  "but  I  am 
come  to  ask  a  favor — two  favors;  one  of  you  and 
one  of  the  American  minister." 

Everett  drew  his  armchair  from  his  desk  and 
waved  Monica  into  it. 

"I  was  sent  here,"  he  said,  "to  do  exactly  what 
you  want.  The  last  words  the  President  ad 
dressed  to  me  were,  'On  arriving  at  your  post 
report  to  Miss  Monica  Ward.' " 

226 


"Some  day  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  young  man 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Fearfully,  Monica  perched  herself  on  the  edge 
of  the  armchair;  as  though  for  protection  she 
clasped  the  broad  table  before  her. 

"The  favor  I  want,"  she  hastily  assured  him, 
"is  not  for  myself." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Everett,  "for  it  is  already 
granted." 

"You  are  very  good,*'  protested  Monica. 

"No,"  replied  Everett,  "I  am  only  powerful. 
I  represent  ninety-five  million  Americans,  and  they 
are  all  entirely  at  your  service.  So  is  the  army 
and  navy." 

Monica  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  The  awe 
she  felt  was  due  an  American  minister  was  rap 
idly  disappearing,  and  in  Mr.  Everett  himself 
her  confidence  was  increasing.  The  other  minis 
ters  plenipotentiary  she  had  seen  at  Camaguay 
had  been  old,  with  beards  like  mountain-goats,  and 
had  worn  linen  dusters.  They  always  were  very 
red  in  the  face  and  very  damp.  Monica  decided 
Mr.  Everett  also  was  old;  she  was  sure  he  must  be 
at  least  thirty-five;  but  in  his  silk  pongee  and 
pipe-clayed  tennis-shoes  he  was  a  refreshing  spec 
tacle.  Just  to  look  at  him  turned  one  quite  cool. 

"We  have  a  very  fine  line  of  battle-ships  this 
morning  at  Guantanamo,"  urged  Everett;  "if 
you  want  one  I'll  cable  for  it." 

227 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Monica  laughed  softly.  It  was  good  to  hear 
nonsense  spoken.  The  Amapalans  had  never 
learned  it,  and  her  brother  said  just  what  he  meant 
and  no  more. 

"Our  sailors  were  here  once,"  Monica  volun 
teered.  She  wanted  Mr.  Everett  to  know  he  was 
not  entirely  cut  off  from  the  world.  "During  the 
revolution,"  she  explained.  "We  were  so  glad 
to  see  them;  they  made  us  all  feel  nearer  home. 
They  set  up  our  flag  in  the  plaza,  and  the  color- 
guard  let  me  photograph  it,  with  them  guarding 
it.  And  when  they  marched  away  the  archbishop 
stood  on  the  cathedral  steps  and  blessed  them, 
and  we  rode  out  along  the  trail  to  where  it  comes 
to  the  jungle.  And  then  we  waved  good-by,  and 
they  cheered  us.  We  all  cried." 

For  a  moment,  quite  unconsciously,  Monica 
gave  an  imitation  of  how  they  all  cried.  It  made 
the  appeal  of  the  violet  eyes  even  more  disturb 
ing. 

"Don't  you  love  our  sailors?"  begged  Monica. 

Fearful  of  hurting  the  feelings  of  others,  she 
added  hastily,  "And,  of  course,  our  marines,  too." 

Everett  assured  her  if  there  was  one  thing  that 
meant  more  to  him  than  all  else,  it  was  an  Amer 
ican  bluejacket,  and  next  to  him  an  American 
leatherneck. 

228 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

It  took  a  long  time  to  arrange  the  details  of  the 
Red  Cross  Society.  In  spite  of  his  reputation 
for  brilliancy,  it  seemed  to  Monica  Mr.  Everett 
had  a  mind  that  plodded.  For  his  benefit  it  was 
necessary  several  times  to  repeat  the  most  simple 
proposition.  She  was  sure  his  inability  to  fasten 
his  attention  on  her  League  of  Mercy  was  because 
his  brain  was  occupied  with  problems  of  state. 
It  made  her  feel  selfish  and  guilty.  '  When  his 
visitor  decided  that  to  explain  further  was  but  to 
waste  his  valuable  time  and  had  made  her  third 
effort  to  go,  Everett  went  with  her.  He  suggested 
that  she  take  him  to  the  hospital  and  introduce 
him  to  the  sisters.  He  wanted  to  talk  to  them 
about  the  Red  Cross  League.  It  was  a  charming 
walk.  Every  one  lifted  his  hat  to  Monica;  the 
beggars,  the  cab-drivers,  the  barefooted  police 
men,  and  the  social  lights  of  Camaguay  on  the 
sidewalks  in  front  of  the  cafes  rose  and  bowed. 

"It  is  like  walking  with  royalty!"  exclaimed 
Everett. 

While  at  the  hospital  he  talked  to  the  Mother 
Superior, — his  eyes  followed  Monica.  As  she 
moved  from  cot  to  cot  he  noted  how  the  younger 
sisters  fluttered  happily  around  her,  like  brides 
maids  around  a  bride,  and  how  as  she  passed,  the 
eyes  of  those  in  the  cots  followed  her  jealously, 

229 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

and  after  she  had  spoken  with  them  smiled  in 
content. 

"She  is  good,"  the  Mother  Superior  was  saying, 
"and  her  brother,  too,  is  very  good." 

Everett  had  forgotten  the  brother.  With  a 
start  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  found  the  Mother  Su 
perior  regarding  him. 

"He  is  very  good,"  she  repeated.  "For  us,  he 
built  this  wing  of  the  hospital.  It  was  his  money. 
We  should  be  very  sorry  if  any  harm  came  to  Mr. 
Ward.  Without  his  help  we  would  starve."  She 
smiled,  and  with  a  gesture  signified  the  sick.  "I 
mean  they  would  starve;  they  would  die  of  dis 
ease  and  fever."  The  woman  fixed  upon  him 
grave,  inscrutable  eyes.  "Will  Your  Excellency 
remember?"  she  said.  It  was  less  of  a  question 
than  a  command.  "Where  the  church  can  for 
give — "  she  paused. 

Like  a  real  diplomat  Everett  sought  refuge  in 
mere  words. 

"The  church  is  all-powerful,  Mother,"  he  said. 
"Her  power  to  forgive  is  her  strongest  weapon. 
I  have  no  such  power.  It  lies  beyond  my  au 
thority.  I  am  just  a  messenger-boy  carrying  the 
wishes  of  the  government  of  one  country  to  the 
government  of  another." 

The  face  of  the  Mother  Superior  remained 
grave,  but  undisturbed. 

230 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"Then,  as  regards  our  Mr.  Ward,"  she  said, 
"the  wishes  of  your  government  are — 

Again  she  paused;  again  it  was  less  of  a  ques 
tion  than  a  command.  With  interest  Everett 
gazed  at  the  whitewashed  ceiling. 

"I  have  not  yet,"  he  said,  "communicated 
them  to  any  one." 

That  night,  after  dinner  in  the  patio,  he  reported 
to  Garland  the  words  of  the  Mother  Superior. 

"That  was  my  dream,  0  Prophet,"  concluded 
Everett,  "you  who  can  read  this  land  of  lotus- 
eaters,  interpret!  What  does  it  mean?" 

"It  only  means  what  I've  been  telling  you," 
said  the  consul.  "It  means  that  if  you're  going 
after  that  treaty,  you've  only  got  to  fight  the 
Catholic  Church.  That's  all  it  means!" 

Later  in  the  evening  Garland  said:  "I  saw  you 
this  morning  crossing  the  plaza  with  Monica. 
When  I  told  you  everybody  in  this  town  loved 
her,  was  I  right?" 

"Absolutely!"  assented  Everett.  "But  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  she  was  a  flapper?" 

"I  don't  know  what  a  flapper  is,"  promptly  re 
torted  Garland.  "And  if  I  did,  I  wouldn't  call 
Monica  one." 

"A  flapper  is  a  very  charming  person,"  pro 
tested  Everett.  "I  used  the  term  in  its  most 
complimentary  sense.  It  means  a  girl  between 

231 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

fourteen  and  eighteen.  It's  English  slang,  and 
in  England  at  the  present  the  flapper  is  very  pop 
ular.  She  is  driving  her  sophisticated  elder  sister, 
who  has  been  out  two  or  three  seasons,  and  the 
predatory  married  woman  to  the  wall.  To  men 
of  my  years  the  flapper  is  really  at  the  dangerous 
age."  ' 

In  his  bamboo  chair  Garland  tossed  violently 
and  snorted. 

"I  sized  you  up,"  he  cried,  "as  a  man  of  the 
finest  perceptions.  I  was  wrong.  You  don't  ap 
preciate  Monica!  Dangerous!  You  might  as  well 
say  God's  sunshine  is  dangerous,  or  a  beautiful 
flower  is  dangerous." 

Everett  shook  his  head  at  the  other  man  re 
proachfully: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  sunstroke?"  he  de 
manded.  "Don't  you  know  if  you  smell  certain 
beautiful  flowers  you  die?  Can't  you  grasp  any 
other  kind  of  danger  than  being  run  down  by  a 
trolley-car?  Is  the  danger  of  losing  one's  peace 
of  mind  nothing,  of  being  unfaithful  to  duty> 
nothing!  Is " 

Garland  raised  his  arms. 

"Don't  shoot!"  he  begged.  "I  apologize. 
You  do  appreciate  Monica.  You  have  your  con 
sul's  permission  to  walk  with  her  again." 

232 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

The  next  day  young  Professor  Peabody  called 
and  presented  his  letters.  He  was  a  forceful 
young  man  to  whom  the  delays  of  diplomacy  did 
not  appeal,  and  one  apparently  accustomed  to 
riding  off  whatever  came  in  his  way.  He  seemed 
to  consider  any  one  who  opposed  him,  or  who 
even  disagreed  with  his  conclusions,  as  offering  a 
personal  affront.  With  indignation  he  launched 
into  his  grievance. 

"These  people,"  he  declared,  "are  dogs  in  the 
manger,  and  Ward  is  the  worst  of  the  lot.  He 
knows  no  more  of  archaeology  than  a  congressman. 
The  man's  a  fakir!  He  showed  me  a  spear-head 
of  obsidian  and  called  it  flint;  and  he  said  the 
Aztecs  borrowed  from  the  Mayas,  and  that  the 
Toltecs  were  a  myth.  And  he  got  the  Aztec  solar 
calendar  mixed  with  the  Ahau.  He's  as  ignorant 
as  that." 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  exclaimed  Everett. 

"You  may  laugh,"  protested  the  professor, 
<kbut  the  ruins  of  Cobre  hold  secrets  the  students 
of  two  continents  are  trying  to  solve.  They  hide 
the  history  of  a  lost  race,  and  I  submit  it's  not 
proper  one  man  should  keep  that  knowledge  from 
the  world,  certainly  not  for  a  few  gold  armlets ! " 

Everett  raised  his  eyes. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  he  demanded. 
233 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"I've  been  kicking  my  heels  in  this  town  for  a 
month,"  Peabody  told  him,  "and  I've  talked  to 
the  people  here,  and  to  the  Harvard  expedition 
at  Copan,  and  everybody  tells  me  this  fellow 
has  found  treasure."  The  archaeologist  exclaimed 
with  indignation:  "What's  gold,"  he  snorted, 
"compared  to  the  discovery  of  a  lost  race?" 

"I  applaud  your  point  of  view,"  Everett  as 
sured  him.  "I  am  to  see  the  President  to-morrow, 
and  I  will  lay  the  matter  before  him.  I'll  ask 
him  to  give  you  a  look  in." 

To  urge  his  treaty  of  extradition  was  the  rea 
son  for  the  audience  with  the  President,  and  with 
all  the  courtesy  that  a  bad  case  demanded  Men- 
doza  protested  against  it.  He  pointed  out  that 
governments  entered  into  treaties  only  when  the 
ensuing  benefits  were  mutual.  For  Amapala  in 
a  treaty  of  extradition  he  saw  no  benefit.  Ama 
pala  was  not  so  far  "advanced"  as  to  produce 
defaulting  bank  presidents,  get-rich-quick  pro 
moters,  counterfeiters,  and  thieving  cashiers. 
Her  fugitives  were  revolutionists  who  had  fought 
and  lost,  and  every  one  was  glad  to  have  them  go, 
and  no  one  wanted  them  back. 

"Or,"  suggested  the  President,  "suppose  I  am 
turned  out  by  a  revolution,  and  I  seek  asylum  in 
your  country  ?  My  enemies  desire  my  life.  They 

would  ask  for  my  extradition " 

234 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"If  the  offence  were  political,"  Everett  cor 
rected,  "my  government  would  surrender  no 
one." 

"But  my  enemies  would  charge  me  with  mur 
der,"  explained  the  President.  "Remember  Cas 
tro.  And  by  the  terms  of  the  treaty  your  govern 
ment  would  be  forced  to  surrender  me.  And  I  am 
shot  against  the  wall."  The  president  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "That  treaty  would  not  be  nice 
forme!" 

"Consider  the  matter  as  a  patriot,"  said  the 
diplomat.  "Is  it  good  that  the  criminals  of  my 
country  should  make  their  home  in  yours  ?  When 
you  are  so  fortunate  as  to  have  no  dishonest  men 
of  your  own,  why  import  ours?  We  don't  seek 
the  individual.  We  want  to  punish  him  only  as 
a  warning  to  others.  And  we  want  the  money 
he  takes  with  him.  Often  it  is  the  savings  of  the 
very  poor." 

The  President  frowned.  It  was  apparent  that 
both  the  subject  and  Everett  bored  him. 

"I  name  no  names,"  exclaimed  Mendoza,  "but 
to  those  who  come  here  we  owe  the  little  railroads 
we  possess.  They  develop  our  mines  and  our 
coffee  plantations.  In  time  they  will  make  this 
country  very  modern,  very  rich.  And  some  you 
call  criminals  we  have  learned  to  love.  Their 

235 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

past  does  not  concern  us.  We  shut  our  ears.  We 
do  not  spy.  They  have  come  to  us  as  to  a  sanc 
tuary,  and  so  long  as  they  claim  the  right  of 
sanctuary,  I  will  not  violate  it." 

As  Everett  emerged  from  the  cool,  dark  halls 
of  the  palace  into  the  glare  of  the  plaza  he  was 
scowling;  and  he  acknowledged  the  salute  of  the 
palace  guard  as  though  those  gentlemen  had  of 
fered  him  an  insult. 

Garland  was  waiting  in  front  of  a  cafe  and 
greeted  him  with  a  mocking  grin. 

"Congratulations,"  he  shouted. 

"I  have  still  twenty-two  days,"  said  Everett. 

The  aristocracy  of  Camaguay  invited  the  new 
minister  to  formal  dinners  of  eighteen  courses,  and 
to  picnics  less  formal.  These  latter  Everett  greatly 
enjoyed,  because  while  Monica  Ward  was  too 
young  to  attend  the  state  dinners,  she  was  exactly 
the  proper  age  for  the  all-day  excursions  to  the 
waterfalls,  the  coffee  plantations,  and  the  asphalt 
lakes.  The  native  belles  of  Camaguay  took  no 
pleasure  in  riding  farther  afield  than  the  military 
parade-ground.  Climbing  a  trail  so  steep  that 
you  viewed  the  sky  between  the  ears  of  your  pony, 
or  where  with  both  hands  you  forced  a  way  through 
hanging  vines  and  creepers,  did  not  appeal.  But 
to  Monica,  with  the  seat  and  balance  of  a  cowboy, 

236 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

riding  astride,  with  her  leg  straight  and  the  ball 
of  her  foot  just  feeling  the  stirrup,  these  expedi 
tions  were  the  happiest  moments  in  her  exile. 
So  were  they  to  Everett;  and  that  on  the  trail 
one  could  ride  only  in  single  file  was  a  most  poig 
nant  regret.  In  the  column  the  place  of  honor 
was  next  to  whoever  rode  at  the  head,  but  Everett 
relinquished  this  position  in  favor  of  Monica.  By 
this  manoeuvre  she  always  was  in  his  sight,  and 
he  could  call  upon  her  to  act  as  his  guide  and  to 
explain  what  lay  on  either  hand.  His  delight  and 
wonder  in  her  grew  daily.  He  found  that  her 
mind  leaped  instantly  and  with  gratitude  to  what 
ever  was  most  fair.  Just  out  of  reach  of  her 
pony's  hoofs  he  pressed  his  own  pony  forward, 
and  she  pointed  out  to  him  what  in  the  tropic 
abundance  about  them  she  found  most  beauti 
ful.  Sometimes  it  was  the  tumbling  waters  of  a 
cataract;  sometimes,  high  in  the  topmost  branches 
of  a  ceiba-tree,  a  gorgeous  orchid;  sometimes 
a  shaft  of  sunshine  as  rigid  as  a  search-light, 
piercing  the  shadow  of  the  jungle.  At  first  she 
would  turn  in  the  saddle  and  call  to  him,  but  as 
each  day  they  grew  to  know  each  other  better  she 
need  only  point  with  her  whip-hand  and  he  would 
answer  "Yes,"  and  each  knew  the  other  under 
stood. 

237 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

As  a  body,  the  exiles  resented  Everett.  They 
knew  his  purpose  in  regard  to  the  treaty,  and  for 
them  he  always  must  be  the  enemy.  Even  though 
as  a  man  they  might  like  him,  they  could  not  for 
get  that  his  presence  threatened  their  peace  and 
safety.  Chester  Ward  treated  him  with  impeccable 
politeness;  but,  although  his  house  was  the  show- 
place  of  Camaguay,  he  never  invited  the  American 
minister  to  cross  the  threshold.  On  account  of 
Monica,  Everett  regretted  this  and  tried  to  keep 
the  relations  of  her  brother  and  himself  outwardly 
pleasant.  But  Ward  made  it  difficult.  To  no 
one  was  his  manner  effusive,  and  for  Monica  only 
he  seemed  to  hold  any  real  feeling.  The  two  were 
alone  in  the  world;  he  was  her  only  relative,  and 
to  the  orphan  he  had  been  father  and  mother. 
When  she  was  a  child  he  had  bought  her  toys  and 
dolls;  now,  had  the  sisters  permitted,  he  would 
have  dressed  her  in  imported  frocks,  and  with 
jewels  killed  her  loveliness.  He  seemed  to  under 
stand  how  to  spend  his  money  as  little  as  did  the 
gossips  of  Camaguay  understand  from  whence  it 
came. 

That  Monica  knew  why  her  brother  lived  in 
Camaguay  Everett  was  uncertain.  She  did  not 
complain  of  living  there,  but  she  was  not  at  rest, 
and  constantly  she  was  asking  Everett  of  foreign 

238 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

lands.  As  Everett  was  homesick  for  them,  he 
was  most  eloquent. 

"I  should  like  to  see  them  for  myself,"  said 
Monica,  "but  until  my  brother's  work  here  is 
finished  we  must  wait.  And  I  am  young,  and 
after  a  few  years  Europe  will  be  just  as  old.  When 
my  brother  leaves  Amapala,  he  promises  to  take 
me  wherever  I  ask  to  go:  to  London,  to  Paris,  to 
Rome.  So  I  read  and  read  of  them;  books  of 
history,  books  about  painting,  books  about  the 
cathedrals.  But  the  more  I  read  the  more  I  want 
to  go  at  once,  and  that  is  disloyal.'* 

"Disloyal?"  asked  Everett. 

"To  my  brother,"  explained  Monica.  "He 
does  so  much  for  me.  I  should  think  only  of  his 
work.  That  is  all  that  really  counts.  For  the 
world  is  waiting  to  learn  what  he  has  discovered. 
It  is  like  having  a  brother  go  in  search  of  the  North 
Pole.  You  are  proud  of  what  he  is  doing,  but  you 
want  him  back  to  keep  him  to  yourself.  Is  that 
selfish  ?" 

Everett  was  a  trained  diplomat,  but  with  his 
opinion  of  Chester  Ward  he  could  not  think  of  the 
answer.  Instead,  he  was  thinking  of  Monica  in 
Europe;  of  taking  her  through  the  churches  and 
galleries  which  she  had  seen  only  in  black  and 
white.  He  imagined  himself  at  her  side  facing 

239 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

the  altar  of  some  great  cathedral,  or  some  paint 
ing  in  the  Louvre,  and  watching  her  face  lighten 
and  the  tears  come  to  her  eyes,  as  they  did  now, 
when  things  that  were  beautiful  hurt  her.  Or  he 
imagined  her  rid  of  her  half-mourning  and  accom 
panying  him  through  a  cyclonic  diplomatic  career 
that  carried  them  to  Japan,  China,  Persia;  to 
Berlin,  Paris,  and  London.  In  these  imaginings 
Monica  appeared  in  pongee  and  a  sun-hat  riding 
an  elephant,  in  pearls  and  satin  receiving  royalty, 
in  tweed  knickerbockers  and  a  woollen  jersey 
coasting  around  the  hairpin  curve  at  Saint 
Moritz. 

Of  course  he  recognized  that  except  as  his  wife 
Monica  could  not  accompany  him  to  all  these 
strange  lands  and  high  diplomatic  posts.  And 
of  course  that  was  ridiculous.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  for  the  success  of  what  he  called  his 
career,  that  he  was  too  young  to  marry;  but  he 
was  sure,  should  he  propose  to  marry  Monica, 
every  one  would  say  he  was  too  old.  And  there 
was  another  consideration.  What  of  the  brother? 
Would  his  government  send  him  to  a  foreign  post 
when  his  wife  was  the  sister  of  a  man  they  had 
just  sent  to  the  penitentiary? 

He  could  hear  them  say  in  London,  "We  know 
your  first  secretary,  but  who  is  Mrs.  Everett?" 

240 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

And  the  American  visitor  would  explain:  "She 
is  the  sister  of  'Inky  Dink,'  the  forger.  He  is 
bookkeeping  in  Sing  Sing." 

Certainly  it  would  be  a  handicap.  He  tried  to 
persuade  himself  that  Monica  so  entirely  filled  his 
thoughts  because  in  Camaguay  there  was  no  one 
else;  it  was  a  case  of  propinquity;  her  loneliness 
and  the  fact  that  she  lay  under  a  shadow  for  which 
she  was  not  to  blame  appealed  to  his  chivalry. 
So,  he  told  himself,  in  thinking  of  Monica  except 
as  a  charming  companion,  he  was  an  ass.  And 
then,  arguing  that  in  calling  himself  an  ass  he  had 
shown  his  saneness  and  impartiality,  he  felt  justi 
fied  in  seeing  her  daily. 

One  morning  Garland  came  to  the  legation  to 
tell  Everett  that  Peabody  was  in  danger  of  bring 
ing  about  international  complications  by  having 
himself  thrust  into  the  cartel. 

"If  he  qualifies  for  this  local  jail,"  said  Garland, 
"you  will  have  a  lot  of  trouble  setting  him  free. 
You'd  better  warn  him  it's  easier  to  keep  out  than 
to  get  out." 

"What  has  he  been  doing?"  asked  the  minister. 

"Poaching  on  Ward's  ruins,"  said  the  consul. 
"He  certainly  is  a  hustler.  He  pretends  to  go  to 
Copan,  but  really  goes  to  Cobre.  Ward  had  him 
followed  and  threatened  to  have  him  arrested. 

241 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Peabody  claims  any  tourist  has  a  right  to  visit 
the  ruins  so  long  as  he  does  no  excavating.  Ward 
accused  him  of  exploring  the  place  by  night  and 
taking  photographs  by  flash-light  of  the  hiero 
glyphs.  He's  put  an  armed  guard  at  the  ruins, 
and  he  told  Peabody  they  are  to  shoot  on  sight. 
So  Peabody  went  to  Mendoza  and  said  if  anybody 
took  a  shot  at  him  he'd  bring  war-ships  down  here 
and  blow  Amapala  off  the  map." 

"A  militant  archaeologist,"  said  Everett,  "is 
something  new.  Peabody  is  too  enthusiastic. 
He  and  his  hieroglyphs  are  becoming  a  bore." 

He  sent  for  Peabody  and  told  him  unless  he 
curbed  his  spirit  his  minister  could  not  promise 
to  keep  him  out  of  a  very  damp  and  dirty  dun 
geon. 

"I  am  too  enthusiastic,"  Peabody  admitted, 
"but  to  me  this  fellow  Ward  is  like  a  red  flag  to 
the  bull.  His  private  graft  is  holding  up  the 
whole  scientific  world.  He  won't  let  us  learn  the 
truth,  and  he's  too  ignorant  to  learn  it  himself. 
Why,  he  told  me  Cobre  dated  from  1578  when 
Palacio  wrote  of  it  to  Philip  the  Second,  not  know 
ing  that  in  that  very  letter  Palacio  states  that  he 
found  Cobre  in  ruins.  Is  it  right  a  man  as  igno 
rant " 

Everett  interrupted  by  levelling  his  finger. 
242 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"You,"  he  commanded,  "keep  out  of  those 
ruins!  My  dear  professor,"  he  continued  re 
proachfully,  "you  are  a  student,  a  man  of  peace. 
Don't  try  to  wage  war  on  these  Amapalans. 
They're  lawless,  they're  unscrupulous.  So  is 
Ward.  Besides,  you  are  in  the  wrong,  and  if  they 
turn  ugly,  your  minister  cannot  help  you."  He 
shook  his  head  and  smiled  doubtfully.  "I  can't 
understand,"  he  exclaimed,  "why  you're  so  keen. 
It's  only  a  heap  of  broken  pottery.  Sometimes 
I  wonder  if  your  interest  in  Cobre  is  that  only  of 
the  archaeologist." 

"What  other  interest "  demanded  Peabody. 

"Doesn't  Ward's  buried  treasure  appeal  at  all?" 
asked  the  minister.  "I  mean,  of  course,  to  your 
imagination.  It  does  to  mine." 

The  young  professor  laughed  tolerantly. 

"Buried  treasure!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  Ward 
has  found  treasure,  and  I  think  he  has,  he's  wel 
come  to  it.  What  we  want  is  what  you  call  the 
broken  pottery.  It  means  nothing  to  you,  but 
to  men  like  myself,  who  live  eight  hundred  years 
behind  the  times,  it  is  much  more  precious  than 
gold." 

A  few  moments  later  Professor  Peabody  took 
his  leave,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had  turned  the 
corner  of  the  Calle  Morazan  that  he  halted  and, 

243 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

like  a  man  emerging  from  water,  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

"Gee!"  muttered  the  distinguished  archaeolo 
gist,  "that  was  a  close  call!" 

One  or  two  women  had  loved  Everett,  and  after 
five  weeks,  in  which  almost  daily  he  had  seen 
Monica,  he  knew  she  cared  for  him.  This  dis 
covery  made  him  entirely  happy  and  filled  him 
with  dismay.  It  was  a  complication  he  had  not 
foreseen.  It  left  him  at  the  parting  of  two  ways, 
one  of  which  he  must  choose.  For  his  career  he 
was  willing  to  renounce  marriage,  but  now  that 
Monica  loved  him,  even  though  he  had  consciously 
not  tried  to  make  her  love  him,  had  he  the  right 
to  renounce  it  for  her  also?  He  knew  that  the 
difference  between  Monica  and  his  career  lay  in 
the  fact  that  he  loved  Monica  and  was  in  love 
with  his  career.  Which  should  he  surrender? 
Of  this  he  thought  long  and  deeply,  until  one  night, 
without  thinking  at  all,  he  chose. 

Colonel  Goddard  had  given  a  dance,  and,  as  all 
invited  were  Americans,  the  etiquette  was  less 
formal  than  at  the  gatherings  of  the  Amapalans. 
For  one  thing,  the  minister  and  Monica  were  able 
to  sit  on  the  veranda  overlooking  the  garden  with 
out  his  having  to  fight  a  duel  in  the  morning. 

It  was  not  the  moonlight,  or  the  music,  or  the 
244 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

palms  that  made  Everett  speak.  It  was  simply 
the  knowledge  that  it  was  written,  that  it  had  to 
be.  And  he  heard  himself,  without  prelude  or 
introduction,  talking  easily  and  assuredly  of  the 
life  they  would  lead  as  man  and  wife.  From  this 
dream  Monica  woke  him.  The  violet  eyes  were 
smiling  at  him  through  tears. 

"When  you  came,"  said  the  girl,  "and  I  loved 
you,  I  thought  that  was  the  greatest  happiness. 
Now  that  I  know  you  love  me  I  ask  nothing  more. 
And  I  can  bear  it." 

Everett  felt  as  though  an  icy  finger  had  moved 
swiftly  down  his  spine.  He  pretended  not  to 
understand. 

"Bear  what?"  he  demanded  roughly. 

"That  I  cannot  marry  you,"  said  the  girl. 
"Even  had  you  not  asked  me,  in  loving  you  I 
would  have  been  happy.  Now  that  I  know  you 
thought  of  me  as  your  wife,  I  am  proud.  I  am 
grateful.  And  the  obstacle " 

Everett  laughed  scornfully. 

"There  is  no  obstacle." 

Monica  shook  her  head.  Unafraid,  she  looked 
into  his  eyes,  her  own  filled  with  her  love  for  him. 

"Don't  make  it  harder,"  she  said.  "My 
brother  is  hiding  from  the  law.  What  he  did  I 
don't  know.  When  it  happened  I  was  at  the  con- 

245 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

vent,  and  he  did  not  send  for  me  until  he  had 
reached  Amapala.  I  never  asked  why  we  came, 
but  were  I  to  marry  you,  with  your  name  and  your 
position,  every  one  else  would  ask.  And  the  scan 
dal  would  follow  you;  wherever  you  went  it  would 
follow;  it  would  put  an  end  to  your  career." 

His  career,  now  that  Monica  urged  it  as  her 
rival,  seemed  to  Everett  particularly  trivial. 

"I  don't  know  what  your  brother  did  either," 
he  said.  "His  sins  are  on  his  own  head.  They're 
not  on  yours,  not  on  mine.  I  don't  judge  him; 
neither  do  I  intend  to  let  him  spoil  my  happiness. 
Now  that  I  have  found  you  I  will  never  let  you 

go/' 

Sadly  Monica  shook  her  head  and  smiled. 

"When  you  leave  here,"  she  said,  "for  some 
new  post,  you  won't  forget  me,  but  you'll  be  grate 
ful  that  I  let  you  go  alone;  that  I  was  not  a  drag 
on  you.  When  you  go  back  to  your  great  people 
and  your  proud  and  beautiful  princesses,  all  this 
will  seem  a  strange  dream,  and  you  will  be  glad 
you  are  awake — and  free." 

"The  idea  of  marrying  you,  Monica,"  said 
Everett,  "is  not  new.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  only 
since  we  moved  out  here  into  the  moonlight. 
Since  I  first  saw  you  I've  thought  of  you,  and 
only  of  you.  I've  thought  of  you  with  me  in 

1246 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

every  corner  of  the  globe,  as  my  wife,  my  sweet 
heart,  my  partner,  riding  through  jungles  as  we 
ride  here,  sitting  opposite  me  at  our  own  table, 
putting  the  proud  and  beautiful  princesses  at  their 
ease.  And  in  all  places,  at  all  moments,  you 
make  all  other  women  tawdry  and  absurd.  And 
I  don't  think  you  are  the  most  wonderful  person 
I  ever  met  because  I  love  you,  but  I  love  you  be 
cause  you  are  the  most  wonderful  person  I  ever 
met." 

"I  am  young,"  said  Monica,  "but  since  I  began 
to  love  you  I  am  very  old.  And  I  see  clearly  that 
it  cannot  be." 

"Dear  heart,"  cried  Everett,  "that  is  quite 
morbid.  What  the  devil  do  I  care  what  your 
brother  has  done!  I  am  not  marrying  your 
brother." 

For  a  long  time,  leaning  forward  with  her 
elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  the  girl  sat  silent.  It  was  as  though  she 
were  praying.  Everett  knew  it  was  not  of  him, 
but  of  her  brother,  she  was  thinking,  and  his  heart 
ached  for  her.  For  him  to  cut  the  brother  out  of 
his  life  was  not  difficult;  what  it  meant  to  her  he 
could  guess. 

When  the  girl  raised  her  eyes  they  were  elo 
quent  with  distress. 

247 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"He  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  she  said;  "always 
so  gentle.  He  has  been  mother  and  father  to  me. 
He  is  the  first  person  I  can  remember.  When  I 
was  a  child  he  put  me  to  bed,  he  dressed  me,  and 
comforted  me.  When  we  became  rich  there  was 
nothing  he  did  not  wish  to  give  me.  I  cannot 
leave  him.  He  needs  me  more  than  ever  I  needed 
him.  I  am  all  he  has.  And  there  is  this  besides. 
Were  I  to  marry,  of  all  the  men  in  the  world  it 
would  be  harder  for  him  if  I  married  you.  For  if 
you  succeed  in  what  you  came  here  to  do,  the  law 
will  punish  him,  and  he  will  know  it  was  through 
you  he  was  punished.  And  even  between  you 
and  me  there  always  would  be  that  knowledge, 
that  feeling." 

"That  is  not  fair,"  cried  Everett.  "I  am  not 
an  individual  fighting  less  fortunate  individuals. 
I  am  an  insignificant  wheel  in  a  great  machine. 
You  must  not  blame  me  because  I " 

With  an  exclamation  the  girl  reproached  him. 

"Because  you  do  your  duty!"  she  protested. 
"  Is  that  fair  to  me  ?  If  for  my  sake  or  my  brother 
you  failed  in  your  duty,  if  you  were  less  vigilant, 
less  eager,  even  though  we  suffer,  I  could  not  love 
you." 

Everett  sighed  happily. 

"As  long  as  you  love  me,"  he  said,  "neither 
your  brother  nor  any  one  else  can  keep  us  apart." 

248 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"My  brother,"  said  the  girl,  as  though  she  were 
pronouncing  a  sentence,  "always  will  keep  us 
apart,  and  I  will  always  love  you." 

It  was  a  week  before  he  again  saw  her,  and  then 
the  feeling  he  had  read  in  her  eyes  was  gone — or 
rigorously  concealed.  Now  her  manner  was  that 
of  a  friend,  of  a  young  girl  addressing  a  man  older 
than  herself,  one  to  whom  she  looked  up  with 
respect  and  liking,  but  with  no  sign  of  any  feeling 
deeper  or  more  intimate.  It  upset  Everett  com 
pletely.  When  he  pleaded  with  her,  she  asked : 

"Do  you  think  it  is  easy  for  me?  But — "  she 
protested,  "I  know  I  am  doing  right.  I  am  do 
ing  it  to  make  you  happy." 

"You  are  succeeding,"  Everett  assured  her,  "in 
making  us  both  damned  miserable." 

For  Everett,  in  the  second  month  of  his  stay  in 
Amapala,  events  began  to  move  quickly.  Fol 
lowing  the  example  of  two  of  his  predecessors,  the 
Secretary  of  State  of  the  United  States  was  about 
to  make  a  grand  tour  of  Central  America.  He 
came  on  a  mission  of  peace  and  brotherly  love,  to 
foster  confidence  and  good-will,  and  it  was  secretly 
hoped  that,  in  the  wake  of  his  escort  of  battle 
ships,  trade  would  follow  fast.  There  would  be 
salutes  and  visits  of  ceremony,  speeches,  ban 
quets,  reviews.  But  in  these  rejoicings  Amapala 
would  have  no  part. 

249 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

For,  so  Everett  was  informed  by  cable,  unless, 
previous  to  the  visit  of  the  Secretary,  Amapala 
fell  into  line  with  her  sister  republics  and  signed 
a  treaty  of  extradition,  from  the  itinerary  of  the 
great  man  Amapala  would  find  herself  pointedly 
excluded.  It  would  be  a  humiliation.  In  the 
eyes  of  her  sister  republics  it  would  place  her  out 
side  the  pale.  Everett  saw  that  in  his  hands  his 
friend  the  Secretary  had  placed  a  powerful  weapon; 
and  lost  no  time  in  using  it.  He  caught  the 
President  alone,  sitting  late  at  his  dinner,  sur 
rounded  by  bottles,  and  read  to  him  the  Secre 
tary's  ultimatum.  General  Mendoza  did  not  at 
once  surrender.  Before  he  threw  over  the  men 
who  fed  him  the  golden  eggs  that  made  him  rich, 
and  for  whom  he  had  sworn  never  to  violate  the 
right  of  sanctuary,  he  first,  for  fully  half  an 
hour,  raged  and  swore.  During  that  time,  while 
Everett  sat  anxiously  expectant,  the  President 
paced  and  repaced  the  length  of  the  dining-hall. 
When  to  relight  his  cigar,  or  to  gulp  brandy  from 
a  tumbler,  he  halted  at  the  table,  his  great  bulk 
loomed  large  in  the  flickering  candle-flames,  and 
when  he  continued  his  march,  he  would  disappear 
into  the  shadows,  and  only  his  scabbard  clanking 
on  the  stone  floor  told  of  his  presence.  At  last 
he  halted  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  so  that  the 
tassels  of  his  epaulets  tossed  like  wheat. 

250 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

"You  drive  a  hard  bargain,  sir,"  he  said. 
"And  I  have  no  choice.  To-morrow  bring  the 
treaty  and  I  will  sign." 

Everett  at  once  produced  it  and  a  fountain  pen. 

"I  should  like  to  cable  to-night,"  he  urged, 
"that  you  have  signed.  They  are  holding  back 
the  public  announcement  of  the  Secretary's  route 
until  hearing  from  Your  Excellency.  This  is  only 
tentative,"  he  pointed  out;  "the  Senate  must 
ratify.  But  our  Senate  will  ratify  it,  and  when 
you  sign  now,  it  is  a  thing  accomplished." 

Over  the  place  at  which  Everett  pointed,  the 
pen  scratched  harshly;  and  then,  throwing  it 
from  him,  the  President  sat  in  silence.  With 
eyes  inflamed  by  anger  and  brandy  he  regarded 
the  treaty  venomously.  As  though  loath  to  let 
it  go,  his  hands  played  with  it,  as  a  cat  plays  with 
the  mouse  between  her  paws.  Watching  him 
breathlessly,  Everett  feared  the  end  was  not  yet. 
He  felt  a  depressing  premonition  that  if  ever  the 
treaty  were  to  reach  Washington  he  best  had 
snatch  it  and  run.  Even  as  he  waited,  the  end 
came.  An  orderly,  appearing  suddenly  in  the 
light  of  the  candles,  announced  the  arrival,  in  the 
room  adjoining,  of  "The  Colonel  Goddard  and 
Sefior  Mellen."  They  desired  an  immediate 
audience.  Their  business  with  the  President  was 

251 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

most  urgent.  Whether  from  Washington  their 
agents  had  warned  them,  whether  in  Camaguay 
they  had  deciphered  the  cablegram  from  the  State 
Department,  Everett  could  only  guess,  but  he 
was  certain  the  cause  of  their  visit  was  the  treaty. 
That  Mendoza  also  believed  this  was  most  evi 
dent. 

Into  the  darkness,  from  which  the  two  exiles 
might  emerge,  he  peered  guiltily.  With  an  oath 
he  tore  the  treaty  in  half.  Crushing  the  pieces 
of  paper  into  a  ball,  he  threw  it  at  Everett's  feet. 
His  voice  rose  to  a  shriek.  It  was  apparent  he 
intended  his  words  to  carry  to  the  men  outside. 
Like  an  actor  on  a  stage  he  waved  his  arms. 

"  That  is  my  answer!"  he  shouted.  "Tell  your 
Secretary  the  choice  he  offers  is  an  insult!  It  is 
blackmail.  We  will  not  sign  his  treaty.  We  do 
not  desire  his  visit  to  our  country."  Thrilled  by 
his  own  bravado,  his  voice  rose  higher.  "Nor," 
he  shouted,  "do  we  desire  the  presence  of  his 
representative.  Your  usefulness  is  at  an  end. 
You  will  receive  your  passports  in  the  morning." 

As  he  might  discharge  a  cook,  he  waved  Everett 
away.  His  hand,  trembling  with  excitement, 
closed  around  the  neck  of  the  brandy-bottle. 
Everett  stooped  and  secured  the  treaty.  On  his 
return  to  Washington,  torn  and  rumpled  as  it 

252 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

was,   it  would   be  his  justification.     It  was   his 

"  Exhibit  A:' 

As  he  approached  the  legation  he  saw  drawn  up 
in  front  of  it  three  ponies  ready  saddled.  For  an 
instant  he  wondered  if  Mendoza  intended  further 
to  insult  him,  if  he  planned  that  night  to  send  him 
under  guard  to  the  coast.  He  determined  hotly 
sooner  than  submit  to  such  an  indignity  he  would 
fortify  the  legation,  and  defend  himself.  But 
no  such  heroics  were  required  of  him.  As  he 
reached  the  door,  Garland,  with  an  exclamation 
of  relief,  hailed  him,  and  Monica,  stepping  from 
the  shadow,  laid  an  appealing  hand  upon  his 
sleeve. 

"My  brother!"  she  exclaimed.  "The  guard 
at  Cobre  has  just  sent  word  that  they  found  Pea- 
body  prowling  in  the  ruins  and  fired  on  him.  He 
fired  back,  and  he  is  still  there  hiding.  My 
brother  and  others  have  gone  to  take  him.  I 
don't  know  what  may  happen  if  he  resists.  Ches 
ter  is  armed,  and  he  is  furious;  he  is  beside  him 
self;  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  But  he  must 
listen  to  you.  Will  you  go,"  the  girl  begged, 
"and  speak  to  him;  speak  to  him,  I  mean,"  she 
added,  "as  the  American  minister?" 

Everett  already  had  his  foot  in  the  stirrup. 
"I'm  the  American  minister  only  until  to-mor- 

253 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

row,"  he  said.  "I've  got  my  walking-papers. 
But  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  stop  this  to-night.  Gar 
land,"  he  asked,  "will  you  take  Miss  Ward  home, 
and  then  follow  me?" 

"If  I  do  not  go  with  you,"  said  Monica,  "I 
will  go  alone." 

Her  tone  was  final.  With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  that 
woke  alarmed  echoes  in  the  sleeping  streets  the 
three  horses  galloped  abreast  toward  Cobre.  In 
an  hour  they  left  the  main  trail  and  at  a  walk 
picked  their  way  to  where  the  blocks  of  stone, 
broken  columns,  and  crumbling  temples  of  the 
half-buried  city  checked  the  jungle. 

The  moon  made  it  possible  to  move  in  safety, 
and  at  different  distances  the  lights  of  torches 
told  them  the  man-hunt  still  was  in  progress. 

"Thank  God,"  breathed  Monica,  "we  are  in 
time." 

Everett  gave  the  ponies  in  care  of  one  of  the 
guards.  He  turned  to  Garland. 

"Catch  up  with  those  lights  ahead  of  us,"  he 
said,  "and  we  will  join  this  party  to  the  right. 
If  you  find  Ward,  tell  him  I  forbid  him  taking  the 
law  into  his  own  hands;  tell  him  I  will  protect 
his  interests.  If  you  meet  Peabody,  make  him 
give  up  his  gun,  and  see  that  the  others  don't 
harm  him!" 

254 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Everett  and  the  girl  did  not  overtake  the  lights 
they  had  seen  flashing  below  them.  Before  they 
were  within  hailing  distance,  that  searching  party 
had  disappeared,  and  still  farther  away  other 
torches  beckoned. 

Stumbling  and  falling,  now  in  pursuit  of  one 
will-o'-the-wisp,  now  of  another,  they  scrambled 
forward.  But  always  the  lights  eluded  them. 
From  their  exertions  and  the  moist  heat  they  were 
breathless,  and  their  bodies  dripped  with  water. 
Panting,  they  halted  at  the  entrance  of  what  once 
had  been  a  tomb.  From  its  black  interior  came 
a  damp  mist;  above  them,  alarmed  by  their  in 
trusion,  the  vampire  bats  whirled  blindly  in  cir 
cles.  Monica,  who  by  day  possessed  some  slight 
knowledge  of  the  ruins,  had,  in  the  moonlight, 
lost  all  sense  of  direction. 

"We're  lost,"  said  Monica,  in  a  low  tone.  Un 
consciously  both  were  speaking  in  whispers.  "I 
thought  we  were  following  what  used  to  be  the 
main  thoroughfare  of  the  city;  but  I  have  never 
seen  this  place  before.  From  what  I  have  read 
I  think  we  must  be  among  the  tombs  of  the 
kings." 

She  was  silenced  by  Everett  placing  one  hand 
quickly  on  her  arm,  and  with  the  other  pointing. 
In  the  uncertain  moonlight  she  saw  moving  cau- 

255 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

tiously  away  from  them,  and  unconscious  of  their 
presence,  a  white,  ghostlike  figure. 

"Peabody,"  whispered  Everett. 

"Call  him,"  commanded  Monica. 

"The  others  might  hear,"  objected  Everett. 
"We  must  overtake  him.  If  we're  with  him  when 
they  meet,  they  wouldn't  dare " 

With  a  gasp  of  astonishment,  his  words  ceased. 

Like  a  ghost,  the  ghostlike  figure  had  vanished. 

"He  walked  through  that  rock!"  cried  Mon 
ica. 

Everett  caught  her  by  the  wrist.  "Come!" 
he  commanded. 

Over  the  face  of  the  rock,  into  which  Peabody 
had  dived  as  into  water,  hung  a  curtain  of  vines. 
Everett  tore  it  apart.  Concealed  by  the  vines 
was  the  narrow  mouth  to  a  tunnel;  and  from  it 
they  heard,  rapidly  lessening  in  the  distance,  the 
patter  of  footsteps. 

"Will  you  wait,"  demanded  Everett,  "or  come 
with  me?" 

With  a  shudder  of  distaste,  Monica  answered 
by  seizing  his  hand. 

With  his  free  arm  Everett  swept  aside  the  vines, 
and,  Monica  following,  they  entered  the  tunnel. 
It  was  a  passageway  cleanly  cut  through  the 
solid  rock  and  sufficiently  wide  to  permit  of  their 

256 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

moving  freely.  At  the  farther  end,  at  a  distance 
of  a  hundred  yards,  it  opened  into  a  great  vault, 
also  hollowed  from  the  rock  and,  as  they  saw  to 
their  surprise,  brilliantly  lighted. 

For  an  instant,  in  black  silhouette,  the  figure 
of  Peabody  blocked  the  entrance  to  this  vault, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  right,  again  vanished. 
Monica  felt  an  untimely  desire  to  laugh.  Now 
that  they  were  on  the  track  of  Peabody  she  no 
longer  feared  the  outcome  of  the  adventure.  In 
the  presence  of  the  American  minister  and  of  her 
self  there  would  be  no  violence;  and  as  they 
trailed  the  archaeologist  through  the  tunnel  she 
was  reminded  of  Alice  and  her  pursuit  of  the  white 
rabbit.  This  thought,  and  her  sense  of  relief  that 
the  danger  was  over,  caused  her  to  laugh  aloud. 

They  had  gained  the  farther  end  of  the  tunnel 
and  the  entrance  to  the  vault,  when  at  once  her 
amusement  turned  to  wonder.  For  the  vault 
showed  every  evidence  of  use  and  of  recent  occu 
pation.  In  brackets,  and  burning  brightly,  were 
lamps  of  modern  make;  on  the  stone  floor  stood 
a  canvas  cot,  saddle-bags,  camp-chairs,  and  in 
the  centre  of  the  vault  a  collapsible  table.  On 
this  were  bottles  filled  with  chemicals,  trays,  and 
presses  such  as  are  used  in  developing  photo 
graphs,  and  apparently  hung  there  to  dry,  swing 
ing  from  strings,  the  proofs  of  many  negatives. 

257 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

Loyal  to  her  brother,  Monica  exclaimed  indig 
nantly.  At  the  proofs  she  pointed  an  accusing 
finger. 

"Look!"  she  whispered.  "This  is  Peabody's 
darkroom,  where  he  develops  the  flash-lights  he 
takes  of  the  hieroglyphs!  Chester  has  a  right  to 
be  furious!" 

Impulsively  she  would  have  pushed  past  Ever 
ett;  but  with  an  exclamation  he  sprang  in  front 
of  her. 

"No!"  he  commanded,  "come  away!" 

He  had  fallen  into  a  sudden  panic.  His  tone 
spoke  of  some  catastrophe,  imminent  and  over 
whelming.  Monica  followed  the  direction  of  his 
eyes.  They  were  staring  in  fear  at  the  proofs. 

The  girl  leaned  forward;  and  now  saw  them 
clearly. 

Each  was  a  United  States  Treasury  note  for 
five  hundred  dollars. 

Around  the  turn  of  the  tunnel,  approaching  the 
vault  apparently  from  another  passage,  they 
heard  hurrying  footsteps;  and  then,  close  to  them 
from  the  vault  itself,  the  voice  of  Professor  Pea- 
body. 

It  was  harsh,  sharp,  peremptory. 

"Hands    up!"    it    commanded.     "Drop    that 


gun!' 


258 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

As  though  halted  by  a  precipice,  the  footsteps 
fell  into  instant  silence.  There  was  a  pause,  and 
then  the  ring  of  steel  upon  the  stone  floor.  There 
was  another  pause,  and  Monica  heard  the  voice 
of  her  brother.  Broken,  as  though  with  running, 
it  still  retained  its  level  accent,  its  note  of  inso 
lence. 

"So,"  it  said,  "I  have  caught  you?" 

Monica  struggled  toward  the  lighted  vault,  but 
around  her  Everett  threw  his  arm. 

"Come  away!"  he  begged. 

Monica  fought  against  the  terror  of  something 
unknown.  She  could  not  understand.  They  had 
come  only  to  prevent  a  meeting  between*  her 
brother  and  Peabody;  and  now  that  they  had 
met,  Everett  was  endeavoring  to  escape. 

It  was  incomprehensible. 

And  the  money  in  the  vault,  the  yellow  bills 
hanging  from  a  cobweb  of  strings;  why  should 
they  terrify  her;  what  did  they  threaten  ?  Dully, 
and  from  a  distance,  Monica  heard  the  voice  of 
Peabody. 

"No,"  he  answered;  "I  have  caught  you! 
And  I've  had  a  hell  of  a  time  doing  it!" 

Monica  tried  to  call  out,  to  assure  her  brother 
of  her  presence.  But,  as  though  in  a  nightmare, 
she  could  make  no  sound.  Fingers  of  fear 

259 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

gripped  at  her  throat.  To  struggle  was  no  longer 
possible. 

The  voice  of  Peabody  continued : 

"Six  months  ago  we  traced  these  bills  to  New 
Orleans.  So  we  guessed  the  plant  was  in  Central 
America.  We  knew  only  one  man  who  could 
make  them.  When  I  found  you  were  in  Amapala 
and  they  said  you  had  struck  'buried  treasure' 
— the  rest  was  easy." 

Monica  heard  the  voice  of  her  brother  answer 
with  a  laugh. 

"Easy?"  he  mocked.  "There's  no  extradition. 
You  can't  touch  me.  You're  lucky  if  you  get  out 
of  here  alive.  I've  only  to  raise  my  voice " 

"And,  I'll  kill  you!" 

This  was  danger  Monica  could  understand. 
Freed  from  the  nightmare  of  doubt,  with  a  cry 
she  ran  forward.  She  saw  Peabody,  his  back 
against  a  wall,  a  levelled  automatic  in  his  hand; 
her  brother  at  the  entrance  to  a  tunnel  like  the 
one  from  which  she  had  just  appeared.  His  arms 
were  raised  above  his  head.  At  his  feet  lay  a 
revolver.  For  an  instant,  with  disbelief,  he  stared 
at  Monica,  and  then,  as  though  assured  that  it 
was  she,  his  eyes  dilated.  In  them  were  fear  and 
horror.  So  genuine  was  the  agony  in  the  face  of 
the  counterfeiter  that  Everett,  who  had  followed, 

260 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

turned  his  own  away.  But  the  eyes  of  the 
brother  and  sister  remained  fixed  upon  each  other, 
hers,  appealingly;  his,  with  despair.  He  tried 
to  speak,  but  the  words  did  not  come.  When  he 
did  break  the  silence  his  tone  was  singularly  wist 
ful,  most  tenderly  kind. 

"Did  you  hear?"  he  asked. 

Monica  slowly  bowed  her  head.  With  the  same 
note  of  gentleness  her  brother  persisted : 

"Did  you  understand!" 

Between  them  stretched  the  cobweb  of  strings 
hung  with  yellow  certificates;  each  calling  for  five 
hundred  dollars,  payable  in  gold.  Stirred  by  the 
night  air  from  the  open  tunnels,  they  fluttered 
and  flaunted. 

Against  the  sight  of  them,  Monica  closed  her 
eyes.  Heavily,  as  though  with  a  great  physical 
effort,  again  she  bowed  her  head. 

The  eyes  of  her  brother  searched  about  him 
wildly.  They  rested  on  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

With  his  lowered  arm  he  pointed. 

"Who  is  that?  "he  cried. 

Instinctively  the  others  turned. 

It  was  for  an  instant.     The  instant  sufficed. 

Monica  saw  her  brother  throw  himself  upon 
the  floor,  felt  herself  flung  aside  as  Everett  and 
the  detective  leaped  upon  him;  saw  her  brother 

261 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

press  his  hands  against  his  heart,  the  two  men 
dragging  at  his  arms. 

The  cavelike  room  was  shaken  with  a  report, 
an  acrid  smoke  assailed  her  nostrils.  The  men 
ceased  struggling.  Her  brother  lay  still. 

Monica  sprang  toward  the  body,  but  a  black 
wave  rose  and  submerged  her.  As  she  fainted, 
to  save  herself  she  threw  out  her  arms,  and  as 
she  fell  she  dragged  down  with  her  the  buried 
treasure  of  Cobre. 

Stretched  upon  the  stone  floor  beside  her  brother 
she  lay  motionless.  Beneath  her,  and  wrapped 
about  and  covering  her,  as  the  leaves  covered  the 
babes  in  the  wood,  was  a  vast  cobweb  of  yellow 
bills,  each  for  five  hundred  dollars,  payable  in  gold. 

A  month  later  the  harbor  of  Porto  Cortez  in 
Honduras  was  shaken  with  the  roar  of  cannon. 
In  comparison,  the  roaring  of  all  the  cannon  of  all 
the  revolutions  that  that  distressful  country  ever 
had  known,  were  like  fire-crackers  under  a  barrel. 

Faithful  to  his  itinerary,  the  Secretary  of  State 
of  the  United  States  was  paying  his  formal  visit 
to  Honduras,  and  the  President  of  that  republic, 
waiting  upon  the  Fruit  Company's  wharf  to  greet 
him,  was  receiving  the  salute  of  the  American 
battle-ships.  Back  of  him,  on  the  wharf,  his  own 

262 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

barefooted  artillerymen  in  their  turn  were  salut 
ing,  excitedly  and  spasmodically,  the  distinguished 
visitor.  As  an  honor  he  had  at  last  learned  to 
accept  without  putting  a  finger  in  each  ear,  the 
Secretary  of  State  smiled  with  gracious  calm. 
Less  calm  was  the  President  of  Honduras.  He 
knew  something  the  Secretary  did  not  know. 
He  knew  that  at  any  moment  a  gun  of  his  salut 
ing  battery  might  turn  turtle,  or  blow  into  the 
harbor  himself,  his  cabinet,  and  the  larger  part  of 
his  standing  army. 

Made  fast  to  the  wharf  on  the  side  opposite 
to  the  one  at  which  the  Secretary  had  landed  was 
one  of  the  Fruit  Company's  steamers.  She  was 
on  her  way  north,  and  Porto  Cortez  was  a  port  of 
call.  That  her  passengers  might  not  intrude  upon 
the  ceremonies,  her  side  of  the  wharf  was  roped 
off  and  guarded  by  the  standing  army.  But  from 
her  decks  and  from  behind  the  ropes  the  passen 
gers,  with  a  battery  of  cameras,  were  perpetuating 
the  historic  scene. 

Among  them,  close  to  the  ropes,  viewing  the 
ceremony  with  the  cynical  eye  of  one  who  in 
Europe  had  seen  kings  and  emperors  meet  upon 
the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  was  Everett.  He 
made  no  effort  to  bring  himself  to  the  attention 
of  his  former  chief.  But  when  the  introductions 

263 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

were  over,  the  Secretary  of  State  turned  his  eyes 
to  his  fellow  countrymen  crowding  the  rails  of  the 
American  steamer.  They  greeted  him  with  cheers. 
The  great  man  raised  his  hat,  and  his  eyes  fell 
upon  Everett.  The  Secretary  advanced  quickly, 
his  hand  extended,  brushing  to  one  side  the  stand 
ing  army. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  demanded. 

"On  my  way  home,  sir,"  said  Everett.  "I 
couldn't  leave  sooner;  there  were — personal  rea 
sons.  But  I  cabled  the  department  my  resigna 
tion  the  day  Mendoza  gave  me  my  walking-papers. 
You  may  remember,"  Everett  added  dryly,  "the 
department  accepted  by  cable." 

The  great  man  showed  embarrassment. 

"It  was  most  unfortunate,"  he  sympathized. 
"We  wanted  that  treaty,  and  while,  no  doubt, 
you  made  every  effort " 

He  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  Everett's 
attention  was  not  exclusively  his  own.  Follow 
ing  the  direction  of  the  young  man's  eyes  the  Sec 
retary  saw  on  the  deck  just  above  them,  leaning 
upon  the  rail,  a  girl  in  deep  mourning. 

She  was  very  beautiful.  Her  face  was  as  lovely 
as  a  violet  and  as  shy.  To  the  Secretary  a  beau 
tiful  woman  was  always  a  beautiful  woman.  But 
he  had  read  the  papers.  Who  had  not?  He  was 

264 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

sure  there  must  be  some  mistake.  This  could  not 
be  the  sister  of  a  criminal;  the  woman  for  whom 
Everett  had  smashed  his  career. 

The  Secretary  masked  his  astonishment,  but 
not  his  admiration. 

"Mrs.  Everett?"  he  asked.  His  very  tone 
conveyed  congratulations. 

"Yes,"  said  the  ex-diplomat.  "Some  day  I 
shall  be  glad  to  present  you." 

The  Secretary  did  not  wait  for  an  introduction. 
Raising  his  eyes  to  the  ship's  rail,  he  made  a  deep 
and  courtly  bow.  With  a  gesture  worthy  of 
d'Artagnan,  his  high  hat  swept  the  wharf.  The 
members  of  his  staff,  the  officers  from  the  war 
ships,  the  President  of  Honduras  and  the  members 
of  his  staff  endeavored  to  imitate  his  act  of  hom 
age,  and  in  confusion  Mrs.  Everett  blushed  be 
comingly. 

"When  I  return  to  Washington,"  said  the  Sec 
retary  hastily,  "come  and  see  me.  You  are  too 
valuable  to  lose.  Your  career 

Again  Everett  was  looking  at  his  wife.  Her 
distress  at  having  been  so  suddenly  drawn  into 
the  lime-light  amused  him,  and  he  was  smiling. 
Then,  as  though  aware  of  the  Secretary's  mean 
ing,  he  laughed. 

"My  dear  sir!"  he  protested.  His  tone  sug- 
265 


The  Buried  Treasure  of  Cobre 

gested   he  was   about  to   add   "mind   your  own 
business,"  or  "go  to  the  devil." 

Instead  he  said:  "I'm  not  worrying  about  my 
career.     My  career  has  just  begun." 


266 


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